There Was a Master in a Game
by azriona
Summary: Gallifrey wasn't entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck.  The Master wants out.  Isn't he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master, Sally Sparrow, assorted others to be named later

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

**Summary:** Gallifrey wasn't entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn't he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?

**A/N:** Written for the_tenzo's Bingo Card Ficathon on LJ. Any discrepancies with canon (or historical accuracy, for that matter) are purely the author's intention, resulting from lack of sleep and not enough vegetables in her diet. Let this be a lesson to you, folks: eat your greens, they're good for you.

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* * *

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**Chapter One: Horizontal O**

"Wow," said the Master on the 4,332nd day of being in the Time Lock. "This sucks."

When none of the other Time Lords answered him (mostly because they agreed, but eh, what could you do?), the Master shrugged.

"Well, kids, it's been fun. Let me know who wins that game of Parcheesi."

The next thing they knew, he was gone.

* * *

The thing Sally Sparrow hated most about the 19th century was the underwear. It had taken the better part of a year of living in 1869 before coming to this conclusion, but once there, she was fairly certain that of all the inconveniences living in 1869 brought, when one was used to 2007, underwear beat them all.

It took a few weeks, but Sally became used to the lack of lavatories, pre-packaged dinners, and electric light bulbs. She became rather fond of horse-drawn carriages, being able to see the stars at night, and having the post delivered twice a day. She did miss bowls of dry cereal and milk, being able to watch the telly on rainy afternoons, and sometimes she wanted nothing more than to give the entire city of London a well-needed bath, but otherwise, she was fairly content with her lot.

Really, it could have ended so much worse for her, she figured. One minute, she was in Wester Drumlins, that odd house on the edge of town, desperately frightened out of her wits, when she felt a cold, hard touch on her back–

And the next, she was on a muddy, cobblestone street in rainy London. Sally was never certain why she'd fallen. It might have been trying to get her bearing on the slippery curved stones that lined the road. It might have been sudden shock and slight headache from having been transported over a hundred years into the past. She might have seen the horse bearing down on her from out of the corner of her eye, but Sally couldn't be sure. All she really remembered was the few seconds of standing in the road, completely out of her element, before her world exploded into lightning bolts of pain, and she passed out.

When she woke, it was nearly a week later, and she found herself in a bed in one of the toniest houses in London (Westminister, actually, quite near Oxford Street, which didn't exactly exist the way Sally remembered — very disappointing, considering her current luck). Sally figured if one had to be nearly run over upon landing in 1869 London, it was just as well she'd been nearly run over by Randolph Spencer-Churchill.

Randolph, despite being an absolutely rubbish driver, was at least a good sort of fellow. Having trampled poor Sally nearly to death — and certainly having knocked her unconscious as well as destroyed her clothing (because how else did someone explain her curious get-up?) he had taken her to his house, placed her in a room, and hired nurses to take care of her 'round the clock. When Sally woke up, she had the presence of mind to pretend to have amnesia.

It was incredibly stupid. Sally was certain she'd read a similar plot device in a novel when she was twelve. Stupid as it was, however, it worked like a charm on Randy.

That was the problem. Sally _liked_ Randy. He was sweet, and kind, and enormously intelligent, despite his naivety. Over the previous year, as she'd learned more and more about the time in which she now lived, she was able to slowly "regain" her memory. She had now constructed an entire life in the 19th century, or at least bits of it. Most of it was — well, not exactly true, but at least true enough to her own history that Sally didn't have to struggle to remember parents or siblings or pet animals who never existed. It was easier than continuing to outright lie to Randy, if she could console herself that she was only neglecting to mention the exact century in which she was born.

Hope for going home — well, that had disappeared long since. Sally didn't have any idea, really, how she'd gotten to 1869. She wisely realized that if she didn't know how she'd arrived, she really had no hope in returning. Now, after a year, there were days when it was almost easier to believe that she'd never actually been in the 21st century at all.

* * *

Back to the underwear. Sally Sparrow, having lived in 19th century London for nearly a year, decided once and for all that she hated the underwear most of all. She decided this approximately two seconds after the maid had tightened the laces on her corset for the fourth time.

"Ow!" squeaked Sally.

"Sorry, miss," said Mary, not sounding one bit sorry. "Just a bit tighter, that's all."

"It'd be easier to let out the dress than try to squeeze me into it."

"And have Miss Parsom wreck the lace? It's more than my life is worth, miss," said Mary. She handed Sally one of the laces to hold. Sally took it in her fingers, careful to keep it taut. She'd rather have let it out a little, to give herself space to breathe, but the last time she'd tried it, Mary had pulled her hair. For a servant, Mary was terribly bossy.

"Besides, miss, it's only the three times you have to wear it, and then we'll put it back in its trunks and into the attic."

"Until Randy pulls out the next one." Sally winced as Mary pulled one of the laces with a particularly sharp tug.

"Goodness, miss, how many mothers do you think he had?" she asked. "And she was only married the once, in the one dress, so I do think you'll be safe on that account."

"Remind me never to tell you an actual joke, Mary."

"I'll tell you every morning, if you like," said Mary saucily, and took the lace from Sally to tie them both together. "There, miss, you can exhale now."

"Not really, no," said Sally.

Mary didn't comment, she simply slipped the dress over Sally's head. Sally's world was briefly cream-and-pastel lace, before her reflection in the mirror came into view once more.

Underwear be damned, Sally had to admit she liked the dress. She wouldn't have agreed to the ridiculous corset had she not. It had been Randy's mother's wedding gown, some thirty years before, and Sally supposed that it might have been his grandmother's in some form, thirty years before that. The dressmakers had altered it once more for Sally, bringing it to the height of 1869 fashion, but Sally could still see the evidence of the original dress in its lines. It hung from her shoulders, sweeping delicately into her incredibly tiny waist, before flowing out like butterfly wings to the floor by her feet.

In 2007, Sally would have thought the dress absurd. In 1869, she thought it nearly perfect.

"Hair now, miss," said Mary, and she pushed Sally to sit on a nearby chair. Sally frowned and closed her eyes.

"You'd think I was getting married today, all the trouble you're going to, Mary."

"Just as good as, with a portraitist and flowers and all," said Mary, pins in her teeth. "And anyway, today's the day you'll remember, not the one with the vows, if you don't mind me sayin', miss. On account of the portrait. You'll have that to remember it by."

"A photograph would be easier," said Sally, thinking of her long lost camera, destroyed under the horse's hooves and discarded as rubbish before she'd woken up. "And that's one less time I'd have to wear the corset."

Mary twisted Sally's hair in response, and properly admonished, Sally frowned.

"Photographs don't have the same feel as a portrait painted," Mary scolded her. "They're for the likes of me, who don't have the time or money to spend on the finer things."

"But _twice_, Mary," persisted Sally, and her hair was pulled again.

"Be glad it's only that," came the response, completely unsympathetic.

Sally pondered while Mary continued to twist her hair. "What do you suppose will happen to it, Mary? The portrait, I mean. Where will it hang?"

"Why, here, miss, of course," said Mary, tugging on Sally's hair the same way she'd tugged on the corset laces. "Where else?"

"Always?" wondered Sally. "I mean — suppose some museum wants to show it, a hundred years from now."

Mary barked out a laugh, without dropping a single pin. "Oh, miss, that's a lark. You'll be lovely, but I doubt anyone will sell your wedding portrait."

Sally frowned while Mary giggled, but then she had to grudgingly admit it made some sense. Anyway, she didn't remember anyone ever telling her about a portrait that she resembled, so she supposed it did stay in the family after all.

And besides — had anyone pointed such a thing out to her in 2007 — well, she had no reason to think the woman in the portrait was actually _her_. She'd just think it a coincidence, and she'd probably have shivered like someone stepped on her grave.

Which made Sally wonder. Where _was_ she buried, anyway? The idea that she might have passed by her own tombstone was a bit disconcerting, to say the least.

Anyway, it didn't matter. Mary was putting the finishing touches on her hair now, and Sally could hear someone at the door downstairs. The painter had arrived. It was time for the portrait.

The house was really very nice. She'd always pictured Victorian houses to be overwrought and filled to the brink with the most ridiculous of knick-knacks, but Randy's house was fairly austere, as far as a Victorian sense of decoration went. Sally would have known this even had she not already visited several other houses in the past year, and been able to compare Randy's bare walls and empty shelves to those of his friends and relatives. Sally, who had a habit of slipping down to the kitchens when Mary wasn't looking, in order to find something to eat, had more than once overheard the household staff exalt in the pleasure of having very little to dust, compared to their old positions elsewhere.

Sally liked Randy's house. She had no intention of cluttering it up with a Victorian sense of décor. She might put up with the underwear, but she was not going to put up with the accessories.

Randy waited for her in the entryway. He was really very nice, too, looked almost exactly like a caricature of a classic Victorian gentleman, with handlebar moustache that tickled Sally's nose, and his hair parted neatly down the middle. The only incongruous bit from the norm was his bowtie, which he was hopeless at tying evenly — not even his manservant could manage it, but Sally half thought it was on purpose, so that she could fix it for him. His eyes sparkled blue, however, and he liked to make everyone around him laugh, which was just as well since he was very good at it.

Randy hadn't seen the dress yet. Sally hadn't wanted him to see it until the wedding, but this was quickly overruled, in order that she might wear the dress for the portrait. Walking down the steps now, Sally was pleased to see Randy's eyes widen, and then even more pleased to see that he had started passing a pair of gloves from one hand to the next, as though he couldn't make up his mind what to do just then.

"Do you like it?" Sally asked, pausing on the landing.

Randy choked and coughed for a moment. "Yes," he croaked. He swallowed, and spoke again. "You look lovely."

"The dress, not me," said Sally, and she started down the stairs.

"You," said Randy firmly, and Sally thought the laces on her corset might snap.

"I'm sorry if I'm late," she said as she descended.

Randy recovered remarkably well. "Not at all. He's only just arrived."

"What's he like?"

Randy's moustache quirked. "A bit…odd," he said. "I can't decide if he's odd because he's an artist, or an artist because he's odd."

Sally laughed. "I'd hope it would be the first, otherwise I would question his talent, and your reasons for hiring him." She reached up and quickly straightened his bow tie, and Randy caught her hands in his to tuck them under his arm.

"Oh, he's talented, never fear. Are you ready to be immortalized in oil, my dear?"

Sally felt a shiver go down her spine. "I suppose," she said.

"Go on, then," said Randy. "I'll be along in just a moment, there's a gentleman in the library who needs my attention."

But Randy didn't let go of her hand just yet. Instead, he paused, looking enormously shy, right before he leaned in and kissed Sally on the lips. It was a chaste kiss, but considering the expression on Randy's face as she'd come down the stairs, and the fact that he had only kissed her once before, Sally felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

The painting was to be done in the parlor. It was a dour, dark room — the only one that was remotely what Sally had come to expect as Victorian. The painter had already pulled the curtains back from one of the windows, and the light flooded onto the divan where Sally was to sit, with Randy standing behind. A very classic pose, Sally had been assured, though Sally thought it rather dull. Still, if she would have to sit for hours on end for it, at least she'd be _sitting_. Poor Randy would have to stand the entire time. Yet another point for photography, thought Sally, and then she saw the painter.

The painter. Randy was right — there was something odd about him. Only Sally knew exactly what it was.

The painter was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.

He turned as soon as she entered the room, and Sally could not take her eyes off him. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks were drawn, and his yellow hair couldn't have been washed in at least a month. The sweatshirt hung off his body, and Sally wondered how no one had managed to comment on the sneakers on his feet. But most amazingly — just as shocked as Sally was to see him, _he_ appeared shocked to see _Sally_.

"Well," he said finally. "Aren't _you_ out of place?"

"I'm sorry?" said Sally, alarmed.

"Where am I, anyway?" wondered the man, looking around him.

"London, 1869," said Sally carefully, and the man glanced at her.

"Odd way to answer," he said. "Most people wouldn't respond with a city and a year."

Sally blushed. "You're in Sir Randolph Spencer-Churchill's parlor. How can you not know that?"

"I wasn't here a minute ago," said the man thoughtfully.

"Randy was right — you _are_ odd," said Sally, before she could think.

The man laughed. "You don't know the half of it. But no matter, it's time I was off."

The man saluted Sally with a jaunty grin, and headed right to the door. Where he stopped, as surely as if there was a plate of glass keeping him inside the room. In fact, he slammed directly into it, and fell backwards onto the carpet.

"Bugger," he said, rubbing his nose. He sat up. "Oh, _bugger. All_."

Sally leaned over him. "Are you all right?"

"Do me a favor," said the man crossly. "Don't talk to me. And walk out that door if you could?"

Sally did, and turned back to look in the room. The man scowled, and jumped up to his feet.

And then he promptly ran, full speed, into the invisible glass wall in the doorway. This time, Sally thought she could hear the banging reverberations of the man hitting the barrier.

She herself passed through the doorway without any harm.

"But how did you get _in_?" she wondered aloud.

"Oh, who _cares_ how I got in, it's how I get _out_ that matters," said the man, clearly not pleased with his entrapment. "That _wanker_," he added.

Sally stiffened. "I don't think I caught your name," she said warily.

"Oh, you can call me the Master," said the man, still a bit sore. He got to his feet and shook out his legs. Sally wondered how hard he'd hit the barrier anyway.

Sally snorted. "I will not. I haven't seen any evidence that you're a master with a paintbrush, and until I do–"

"Why would I know what to do with a paintbrush?"

"That's what you're here to do, isn't it? Paint my wedding portrait."

The man let out a laugh that was not meant to show amusement. "You _do_ know that you don't belong here, don't you?"

"I don't know what–"

"Don't be stupid, girl," said the man sharply. "I'm a Time Lord. Don't tell me I can't tell a 21st century girl in an 18th century dress, getting married to a 19th century git."

"Randy is not a git!" cried Sally.

"But you don't deny the rest," said the Master. "How'd you get here? How do you know the Doctor? He's part of this, isn't he? Has to be, who else would shut me up in a room with painting supplies and an insipid idiot. Where is he? I need to talk to him."

Sally stared at him. "I have no idea."

"No idea which? How you got here, how he's part of it–"

"Doctor Johnson is presumably at his surgery–"

The Master groaned. "Not your stupid physician, you idiot girl. The _Doctor, my_ Doctor, the man who's set up this stupid trap for me. Where is he? I know he's around here somewhere."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Fat lot of use you are to me," said the Master, and for a moment, Sally thought he might do something drastic.

Except then — he was gone.

* * *

The Parcheesi game was still going when he returned. Not a single one of the Time Lords playing was a bit surprised to see him.

"Back so soon?" asked one, so smoothly that the Master wanted to knock her head right off from her shoulders.

"I hate him," said the Master, and for once, the Time Lords at the table nodded sympathetically.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Two: Diagonal Right **

"Trying again?"

The Master glared at the Time Lords, still playing Parcheesi. "At least I'm trying to be _productive_."

"Mm," said the Time Lords, and ignored him. Which was just as well, since he wasn't there any longer anyway.

* * *

Lynda Moss crouched below the desk, her arms wrapped around her knees. This was her first assignment, and she was not having fun.

Now, Lynda was a bright girl. She knew perfectly well that expecting to have fun on each and every assignment was just silly. But all the same, she'd been recruited with the promise of fun, and so far, the only fun part of her new job was…well…okay, there _hadn't_ been anything fun so far.

Lynda began reconsidering her career options. It was an extremely short list.

There was a crashing buzzing sound from one of the computers across the room – a signal of alien movement over London. That was her signal, such as it was. Lynda immediately jumped out from under the desk. She made a beeline for the door leading to the rooftop. It was only two levels up, but there wasn't any time to waste – the Sycorax ship had begun to turn around in preparation for its departure from Earth orbit. Lynda had perhaps four minutes at the most to disable the ray guns, or the consequences would be disastrous.

But this was the assignment for which Lynda had been trained from the moment she'd woken aboard the sleek, silvery ship after having been blasted out of the Game Station by the Daleks. Lynda was never sure how she'd survived the vacuum of space, and no one aboard the ship had been able to assuage her curiosity.

The problem was, she was dead. Well, officially, anyway, and really, Lynda thought it just as well. She was tired of being "sweet". "Sweet" got her blown up by mutant aliens, and probably would have gotten her tossed out of the Big Brother house, too, if she hadn't been daft enough to follow the Doctor in the first place, which led to her being blown up by mutant aliens.

And all of _that_ led to Lynda waking up to an offer from the Time Agency, to go back and right a few wrongs in the 21st century. It was an interesting prospect. Lynda, being otherwise dead and somewhat tired of being sweet, figured she'd give international and transdimensional spying a try.

Running up two flights of stairs was easy. Running up two flights of stairs while trying to pull out her emergency kit was a bit trickier, but Lynda had graduated from the top of her class. Running up two flights of stairs and then running over the man standing in her way at the top of them…well, now, that was something Lynda hadn't quite trained to anticipate.

They tumbled over each other into a heap on the landing; Lynda landed face up, but the man landed on his feet, and he leaned over to look her in the face.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," he groaned. "What the bleeding hell are you doing here?"

For a man in a sweatshirt and raggedy jeans – not to mention having just tripped her up on her way to saving the planet – Lynda thought him exceedingly rude. "Do I know you?"

"I'm the Master, and you're in the wrong place." He stomped over and kicked the wall. "Which means so-" _kick_ "-am-" _kick_ "I!" _Kick_.

"I could have told you _that_," snapped Lynda, and pushed herself to her feet. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to save the planet now."

"Who died and made you Doctor?" grumbled the Master, and Lynda's mouth dropped open. She quickly shook away her surprise, however – time was ticking away.

"Don't move," she ordered him. "I'll be right back."

She hit the door leading to the roof as hard as she could; the bang it made against the wall was highly satisfactory. Or would have been, if she had heard it close again. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that the Master had followed her onto the roof, after a brief pause at the door, which he gave a cautionary glare before stepping through.

"Interesting," he said thoughtfully, looking back at the doorway. He shrugged and walked nonchalantly toward Lynda, as if he was doing nothing more curious than taking a stroll through Regent's Park.

"Oo, now there's a lovely bit of machinery," he said admiringly, looking at the ray guns. "Are we going to fire them at something?"

"No, we're – _I'm_ actually going to _stop_ them from firing," said Lynda.

"Well, that's boring," said the Master with a sniff, and he sat on the edge of the rooftop to examine his nails. Lynda ignored him, and opened the control panel on the nearest ray gun. "Of course, these ray guns are a bit sad. Won't make hardly a good explosion at all. Now, if you'd like, I could help to combine the firepower to alter the wavelength—"

"I don't think so," said Lynda.

"Fine, be that way. I'm just saying, since you're not supposed to be here anyway, you might as well make a statement of it."

"I'm making a statement just fine by disabling these, ta."

"It's just very annoying," continued the Master, and Lynda groaned and tried to ignore him. "I keep trying to get out of this Time Lock. Positive: I'm out of the Time Lock. Negative: I'm not in Reality."

"Very real from where I'm standing," said Lynda.

"Oh, you're out of your own time frame, what would you know about reality?" snorted the Master. "The only connection so far is that in both places I've found some ignorant chit out of time who knows the Doctor, even if she won't admit to it." The Master whistled, and looked around them. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Canary Wharf, London," said Lynda, working as quickly as she could. The panels were a bit different from those she'd trained on, but they weren't so far off that she couldn't tell what switch would do which operation. It was only making sure she did everything in order…

"Earth? Typical. He couldn't put me anywhere interesting, could he?" snorted the Master.

"Hey, I'm _from_ Earth!"

"Not this one," said the Master disdainfully. "Aren't you done with that panel yet?"

"They're complicated!"

"Isn't everything."

Lynda slammed the first control panel shut, and headed for the next one. "You could _help_."

"Why?" asked the man, and he sounded surprised to even be asked.

"Well, if you're going to bother and distract me, you could at least disable one of these things."

"That's not much of a reason. Maybe I'd rather their target be blown out of the sky."

"Not like the Sycorax don't deserve it, but better for Torchwood if they aren't turned into ash," explained Lynda. "Only Torchwood doesn't know what's good for them, so here I am."

"Torchwood?" said the Master, a bit surprised. "Well, that's a trick. I knew a man who worked with Torchwood. Once. Well, he worked with them more than once, I only knew him the one time."

"I'm not with Torchwood," said Lynda shortly.

"Well, obviously not, if you're disabling their ray guns. Name Jack Harkness mean anything to you?"

Lynda blinked, and her hand slipped as she closed the control panel. She quickly turned to the next one.

"No."

"Liar," said the Master easily. "You're wearing his Vortex manipulator. Did you steal it from him?"

"Quit distracting me!"

"That's a yes, then."

"No, it's not! I was issued this manipulator fair and square."

"Time Agent, then," said the Master. "A Time Agent who knows the Doctor and is sitting on top of Torchwood Tower, disabling the ray guns that are meant to shoot the Sycorax ship out of the sky in – ooo, 90 seconds. And you've got three ray guns left. Better hurry now."

Lynda looked up, ready to snap a witty response – but the man in the sweatshirt was gone.

* * *

"You know," the Master remarked to the Time Lords playing Parcheesi. "There's something strange going on here."

"Yes," replied one. "She's cheating."

"I am _not_!"

"No, not that, you imbecile," said the Master irritably. "I'm talking about what happens when we leave the Time Lock."

The Time Lords looked at him.

"Don't tell me you haven't _tried_." The Master threw his hands up. "What a worthless bunch of – you spent all that time and effort into putting drumbeats in my head, and sending out a white-star diamond, and then sticking me into a human, mortal body, in order that I could come back and save you bunch from the Time Lock, and you're telling me that you didn't at least _check_ to see if just leaving the Time Lock would _work_?"

"That was Plan B."

"_So when were you going to implement it?_"

The Time Lords looked at each other. The one who might have been in charge shrugged.

"I'm still playing Parcheesi."

"Every last one of you is a worthless sack of bones," snapped the Master, and stormed out of the room. He poked his head back in the door half a minute later. "And I want a change of clothing!"

"There's robes in the closet."

The Master didn't dignify that with a response. He stormed down the hallway and into…

Well, that was the trouble. There wasn't really anywhere to storm _to_, because that was the nature of a Time Lock. You either were, or you weren't, and you didn't really move around much from where you were when you started. When the Time Lock had been implemented, the Master had been theoretically in the Council Room with Rassillon and the rest. That's where he'd been stuck for the past 4,333 days (but who was counting?).

Not being in the Council Room (because there was only so much of those stuck-up big-wigs that the Master could stand – he supposed it was one thing he and the Doctor held in common), the Master wasn't really anywhere. He was just sort of…there. And not there. It was weird. He didn't like it.

The only good thing about the Nothingness was that it gave him space to think.

Two attempts to break out of the Time Lock – and two different outcomes, with one thing in common. Both women he'd encountered had some history with the Doctor. Both were out of their respective timelines.

The Master wondered what it meant. And more so, he wondered what would happen when he tried again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Three: Star**

"You know the difference between me and you?" the Master asked the Time Lords sitting at their table.

The Time Lords didn't answer, but then, the Master didn't expect them to.

"Exactly," said the Master, and was gone.

* * *

The doors leading to the main reception area made a faint _whoosh_ as they slid open. This had its benefits; for one, they alerted Lynda Moss when someone was about to approach the high reception desk where she sat, so she had time to stow her magazine under her notepad before anyone noticed her not working. For another, the sound provided a pleasant sort of white noise, the kind that Lynda liked to hear before falling asleep at night.

That was on a normal day. Today was not a normal day.

Today, when the doors whooshed themselves open, Lynda didn't bother to look up as she ought to have done, to give the visitor a brilliant smile and welcome. She didn't even have a magazine to shove under the notepad. Instead, she was typing onto the notepad on her desk, concentrating so hard on the exact perfect phrasing, it was a few minutes before she registered that the _whoosh_ which had signaled the doors opening, and the footsteps that had accompanied the visitor entering, had not resulted in someone asking her for assistance.

Lynda looked up.

A man stood in the center of the lobby, looking around and over his shoulders as if impressed by what he saw. He wore a dark sweatshirt and jeans, and his bleached blond hair was cut erratically and might have had an entire bottle of mousse worked into it. Unlike most visitors, he didn't seem the least bit inclined to do anything but gawk at his surroundings – except gawk wasn't quite the right word for it, Lynda thought. Gawk implied that he was overwhelmed. This man wasn't overwhelmed; if anything, he was simply overcome with curiosity.

"Well, this is a bit boring," he said aloud. "An office building. And it's _empty_."

"Hello?" asked Lynda, standing.

The man turned and saw her. "Hello!" he said, breaking into a grin. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Yeah," said Lynda, wondering if she should call Security.

The man approached her desk. "I was getting worried," he explained. "But here you are, so apparently he's not as clever as he thought. Like I can't break through two possible timelines!"

The man laughed gaily, and Lynda laughed with him, because it was safer to agree with the madman than it was to antagonize him.

"So," said the man, folding his arms on the desk, "did you stop those ray guns from shooting down the Sycorax ship?"

Lynda stared at him. "What?"

The man didn't seem to notice her confusion. "Ninety seconds to go, it would have been close, but you seemed to move pretty fast. 'Course, you're here, so obviously you made it out alive. I was wondering if the Sycorax were so lucky."

"The who?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Oh, no. Don't tell me it hasn't _happened_ for you yet."

"Look, is there someone here you want to see?" asked Lynda, running through the protocols of a crazy-man-in-the-lobby scenario. First step: find out what he wanted.

"Well, you," said the man flatly.

"Oh," said Lynda. That settled the first step. She wished she could remember the next one.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"I've never seen you before in my life," said Lynda, and she blinked.

"Liar," said the man, looking at her closely. "You blinked."

"Of course I blinked, people blink!"

"So what are you doing here, anyway?" asked the man conversationally, as if they had been behaving perfectly normally all the while.

"I'm the receptionist," said Lynda, wondering why she was bothering to humor him, and not just calling Security.

"A receptionist who disables ray guns?" asked the man. "Now, that's interesting."

"What makes you think I can disable ray guns?" asked Lynda.

"Definitely hasn't happened to you yet, in that case," said the man. "Ever given any thought to field work?"

Lynda sat back down with a thump. "I'm calling Security."

"Oh, please do," said the man. "I have a good idea who Security is, and I'd love a chat."

Lynda kept her eye warily on the man as she dialed. He didn't seem the least bit concerned, but then, if he were crazy, he wouldn't have. _If_? Of course he was crazy, who else would storm in and start ranting about ray guns and Sycorax and the receptionist having anything to do with them at all?

"Hello, Security? I have a Code 57 here. Yes, thank you."

"Is that what I am? A Code 57?" asked the man, perking up a bit.

"Why don't you take a seat, sir?" said Lynda, motioning to a set of couches nearby.

"Oh, no, can't see you from there," said the man. "Ooo, that's a neat bit of machinery you've got—"

Before Lynda could stop him, the man had grabbed her notepad from her desk. "Hey!" she squeaked, but it was too late. He was reading it.

"If you could have any superpower, what would it be and why?" The man looked up. "Insomnia. Really? You'd want to be an insomniac?"

"That's not what I said," protested Lynda.

"You said you'd want to be able to stay awake for long periods of time without feeling exhausted. Textbook definition of insomnia."

"It is _not_."

"What are the chances you would start talking to a stranger and make a new friend? You said 'zero'. That's a bit closed-off, isn't it?"

"They don't say what kind of friend," said Lynda, wondering why she was bothering to defend herself. "Are we talking a friend for the evening? Or a long-term, call-them-when-you're-trapped-at-the-airport friend? Anyone can make a friend for an evening."

"So why didn't you just say yes?" asked the man.

"Well – what if they mean the second sort of friend? I can't make that sort of friend based off one conversation. It takes work to make that sort of friend."

He snorted. "You're telling me you're afraid of putting a little work into it?"

"Yes – no – wait. That's _my_ application, I never said you could make fun of it." Lynda tried to grab it back, but the man held the notepad out of her reach.

"Application? What for?"

"Nothing. A TV show. Give it _back_."

But he was already scanning the rest of the document. "When are you happiest?" He looked up. "You didn't answer that one."

Lynda's mouth dropped open. "I—"

"What, don't you know?" he asked.

"I'm not having this conversation with you," said Lynda.

"Hate to be contrary – well, no, actually, I like being contrary, and you are having this conversation," said the man. "Of course, you can't be too happy being a receptionist, or you wouldn't be applying to be a contestant on some telly competition."

Lynda made another swipe for her notepad, and this time managed to get it. "Why don't you just _go_."

"Nah, waiting for Security," explained the man.

"I _like_ my job," insisted Lynda.

"Oh, sure, working for intergalactic terrorists is a treat."

Lynda stared at him. "You think we're _terrorists_?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "You aren't?"

"No," said Lynda. "We're Torchwood."

Now the man looked somewhat startled. "You—you're _Torchwood_?"

"Yeah," said Lynda. "This is the London Headquarters. How can you not know what we are, there's only our name etched on the doors where you came in."

The man's mouth dropped open. For the first time in their extremely odd conversation, he seemed absolutely taken aback. "You can't be Torchwood. How is it you're working for Torchwood?"

"They hired me," said Lynda. "Are you okay? You look a little pale—"

"You're working _against_ Torchwood."

Now Lynda went pale. "I am _not_. And don't joke about things like that, you could get me into trouble just by saying it."

"But—" The man abruptly shut his mouth, as if something had just occurred to him. "You're not the same."

"Excuse me?"

"You're in your own time."

"Ah…." Lynda had no idea how to respond to this. But the man continued.

"You're a receptionist."

"Yes," confirmed Lynda cautiously.

"At Torchwood. And you don't disable ray guns."

"I'm not even sure what one _looks_ like."

The man looked thoughtful. "I guess he's more clever than he lets on."

"Who's more clever?" asked Lynda.

Before the man could answer, however, the lift doors slid open, and Security rolled into the lobby.

"Well, it certainly took you long enough," said Lynda.

"Mistress, please identify the location of the problem," said Security.

Lynda pointed at the man. "Him."

The man stared at Security. Which is to say, he looked down. "That's security? A _tin dog_ is Security?"

"I function as the initial Security Protocol specializing in protection of Torchwood properties," said the tin dog. "Please state the nature of your business here."

The man began to laugh. It wasn't kind so much as it was incredulous. "A _tin dog_?"

"K-9 isn't just a tin dog," said Lynda. "And I'd stop laughing at him if I were you."

"Oh, this is too much," giggled the man.

"Please state the nature of your business in this establishment," repeated K-9.

"Oh, I haven't the faintest," said the man, still giggling. "But I think I'm done for the moment."

Lynda blinked – and the man was gone.

"Mistress?" queried the dog. "The problem seems to have been resolved."

"Yeah," said Lynda, peering over the desk, and seeing nothing there. "Weird."

"Is there any further assistance I can provide?"

"Suppose not," said Lynda. She sat back down at her desk, and tried to think of why it all felt so very familiar – and moreover, why she felt suddenly somewhat deflated. "Thanks, K-9."

"You are welcome, Mistress," replied the tin dog, before it wheeled back to the lift.

Lynda picked up her notepad again. The cursor was still blinking on the space where she ought to have been writing about her happiest moments. Without even pausing to think, she began writing again.

_I'm happiest when I'm so busy trying to keep up, I forget how bored I am the rest of the time._

Lynda looked at the words, and thought.

* * *

The Master watched the Time Lords play Parcheesi. They hadn't noticed him yet.

"This has a very odd feeling about it," he said. None of them paid him the slightest bit of attention.

There was something incredibly peculiar about the whole mess. Three times now, he'd tried to get out of the Time Lock. Three times, he'd been thwarted. And how? That was what the Master couldn't pin down. It wasn't the chits – no, they'd had nothing to do with it that he could tell, since they were part of it. And they'd seemed to have some knowledge of the Doctor, even if they wouldn't admit to it, even to themselves.

There was something particularly peculiar about the perky one, the one who first didn't and then did work for Torchwood.

The Master walked up to the table, spied the scorecard, and swiped it as well as the pencil lying atop it. "Hey!" protested one of the Time Lords, but the Master ignored him and stalked back to his corner. He began to scribble.

_Blonde girl_

_Out of her time period_

_Wedding dress_

Under the next column, he wrote:

_Another blonde girl, also out of her time period_

_Sycorax_

_Torchwood, working against_

_Ray guns?_

And in the third column, he wrote:

_Second blonde girl again, but in her own time period_

_Torchwood, working for_

_Tin dog_

_Flirt…_

"Oh, no," said the Master, as the dreadful realization of what had been bothering him came to light. "I was _flirting_ with her."

One of the female Time Lords looked up from her game. "_Her_? Damn."

"Pay up, Romana," said another Time Lord smugly.

"Damn," said Romana again, and handed over the money.

"You useless slobs," the Master snapped at them. None of them paid him any heed, and he didn't feel one bit better about anything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Four: Vertical B**

It was simple, really. There were links, and the Master just had to figure out how the timelines linked together. Once he had the web, it would be simple to untangle it; once untangled, the web would be unable to hold him any longer. Simple.

Except that it wasn't.

The Time Lords were packing up the Parcheesi as he prepared to set out again. "Who won?" he asked, not particularly caring.

They didn't answer; they just glared at each other. He supposed the game had not gone well.

"Nitwits," he told them, and didn't wait for an answer, not that there would have been one, anyway.

* * *

There was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-and-ten-percent: _nothing_.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was a used-to-be-something-but-now-it-was-all-burning-in-flames nothing. The Master wrapped his fingers around the finely-constructed wrought-iron fence that lined his balcony, and stared out onto the city below as it burned. He could hear the crackling of the flames, the distant rumbles as faraway buildings collapsed in on themselves. The air was alive with soot and ash; it sparked and snapped against his skin, nearly electric. Sulfur clogged his nostrils and crept into his throat, and the skin between his fingers felt gritty.

It. Was. _Magnificent_.

"Oh, yes," he whispered, watching the destruction unfold at his feet. He nearly trembled with the pleasure of it. The puny planet below him was gone – every last visage wiped from its surface, leaving only the cleansing fire behind – and after that, silence. Lovely silence. Nothing but silence.

The Master let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes.

The only problem was when he tried to inhale, and started to choke.

As glorious as destruction was – it didn't do much for breathing, respiratory bypass or no.

"Damn," said the Master. "I could do with a drink."

The clamoring horns and whistles came on so suddenly, it nearly gave him a headache. The Master opened his eyes and his mouth dropped open in shock.

He was no longer on the balcony, overlooking a city in flames. Instead, he was sitting at a table covered in green cloth with a little lantern in the center, very near to a stage where a dozen girls in fishnet stockings were performing the can-can. The dance hall was crowded, with men all around him stomping and shouting their approval, as the bored dancers continued their kicks and gyrations.

On the other hand, there was a vodka tonic in front of him, with a slice of lime. The Master didn't hesitate.

It. Was. _Delicious_.

"Hey!" yelled the Master. "Who do you have to kill to get some food around here?"

The waiter, dressed in a neatly pressed tuxedo, appeared at his elbow. It was almost as if he'd been standing there all along, and the Master had only just noticed him – but he could have sworn there was no one there before.

"Sir," said the waiter.

The Master thought. "Ham sandwich?"

"Of course," said the waiter, turned around, and produced a ham sandwich. With a pickle.

The Master munched on the pickle. "Excellent service."

"Thank you, sir."

"How long have you been in business?"

"Quite some time, sir."

"Don't suppose one of the girls would care to spend some time with me?" asked the Master casually.

"Do you have a preference, sir?" asked the waiter, without blinking an eye.

"What if I asked you to join them? On the stage, I mean."

"What would you like me to be wearing, sir?"

The Master dropped the pickle back onto his plate. "You know, I think I'd like to speak to the Manager. If it's at all possible."

"As you wish, sir," said the waiter smoothly. "It'll be out presently."

"It?" asked the Master, but the waiter had already disappeared. "Since when is he an _it_? Did he have a regeneration go wrong? Poor sod."

The Manager didn't appear immediately, which struck the Master as odd – because of all the odd things that had occurred to him so far, at least they'd happened without any delay. That the Manager took his (its?) time in reaching him was irregular, and therefore, suspect.

The Master eyed the ham sandwich. The pickle had tasted all right. The vodka tonic hadn't killed him yet. He took a bite of the sandwich.

Best. Sandwich. _Ever_.

"I don't like this," he announced.

Everything disappeared. Tables, girls, men, lantern, sandwich, vodka tonic, slice of lime. Even the chair the Master sat on, and he fell to the now cleared floor with a smack.

From behind him, there was a rolling sound. The Master looked over his shoulder.

"_You_?"

"Hello, Master," said the little tin dog.

"Well, at least you know who I am," snorted the Master as he picked himself off of the floor.

"Correction: I refer to all superior life forms as Master or Mistress," said the little tin dog.

"Like I said," shrugged the Master, and brushed off his knees. "What are you doing here?"

"You asked to see the Manager."

The Master barked out a laugh. "You're the Manager?"

"Affirmative, Master."

"Little Tinny Security Pup is the manager of this insane asylum?"

It simply appeared: there was no pop, he didn't blink, but just as sure as he'd been in an empty room, now he stood in the center of a hospital ward. Each bed had an occupant who was clearly on the opposite side of normal, either moaning piteously to themselves, or tied to their beds in case they threw themselves out of a window. One patient was standing in the corner, nose to the wall, reciting Shakespearean sonnets. Another was counting out four pence, one at a time, over and over and over.

"Okay," said the Master. "Not the insane asylum I meant."

"My apologies, Master," said the little tin dog, and just like that, they were in the empty room again.

The Master was done. "What are you?"

"I am K-9."

"Great. Where am I?"

"I am unable to answer that question precisely, Master," said the dog. "I apologize."

The Master frowned. "What does that mean? Am I in Torchwood?"

"Negative, Master."

"You're Torchwood Security, aren't you? Why would you be guarding me if this wasn't Torchwood?"

"Correction: I am not Torchwood Security. I am the Manager."

"The Manager of Torchwood?"

"I am not connected to Torchwood presently, Master. I am the Manager."

But the Master had caught something. "_Presently_."

"Affirmative."

"You were Torchwood Security before? So I'm in the future?"

"I am unable to answer that question precisely, Master," said the dog. "I apologize."

The Master snorted. "Fine, fine. So, I'm not at Torchwood, I'm not in an insane asylum, I'm not in a dance hall, and I'm not watching a planet burn at my feet."

"Affirmative, Master."

"Well, that's something." The Master went to examine one of the walls. It, like the floor, was a smooth, polished light-grain wood. It felt like wood. It tasted like wood. It wasn't wood.

"Do you wish to be?"

The Master turned to look at the tin dog. "Excuse me?"

"Do you wish to be in those places, Master?"

"I didn't wish to be there, I just _was_ there," said the Master, annoyed.

"Correction: You did wish to be there," said the little tin dog.

There was a whirring sound, as if a tape was being rewound, and then the Master heard his own voice played back in the room, coughing: "I could use a drink." Another whirring: "I don't like this." Another whirring: "…this insane asylum?"

The Master's mouth dropped further open with every word he heard himself say. "I wished it – it came true."

"Affirmative, Master. I am programmed to enable the program to fulfill your fantasies. All you need do is verbalize your desires, and I will implement them."

The Master gave K-9 a hard look. "Oh, really? Great. I'd like to get out of the Time Lock and into Reality now."

"I am unable to fulfill that fantasy precisely, Master," said the dog. "I apologize."

The Master screamed in frustration. It echoed in the wooden chamber.

"Request does not compute," said the little tin dog.

"What the hell _is_ this place?" yelled the Master.

"A game," said the dog.

Silence fell.

"A _game_," clarified the Master.

"A game, Master," said the dog. "You are in a game."

The Master nodded, slowly. "Of course. Why not. A game. All right. Good to know."

"You are welcome, Master," said the little tin dog, and sounded very pleased with itself, or as pleased as a tin dog can sound.

Only the Master was no longer there to hear.

* * *

"A game. A _game_. A game. _A game_."

The Time Lords at the table paid the Master no heed, but the inattention was mutual. The Master was too busy pacing and trying to reason things out.

"It's a game – it's a great bloody _game_, and he's going to make me dance to his tune. Except how do I even know what game he's _playing_, except to make me look the fool? Nothing makes _sense_."

The Time Lords ignored him. The Master ignored the Time Lords, and wrenched his notes out of his pocket to add a fourth column:

_Tin dog, not Torchwood  
Fantasies  
Instant change of surroundings_

The Master stared at the paper. There were connections, but they didn't run through all of the places he'd been. The second blond chit, the tin dog, Torchwood, some romantic hanky-panky….nothing was constant.

"Except for me," said the Master aloud. "_I'm_ the constant."

"Constant pain in the rear," muttered one of the Time Lords at the table.

"Explain why it had to be _him_ with the drumming," said another.

"He was closest," replied the first.

"_Oi_," yelled the Master, turning to make sure they heard him, but the rest of what he'd been about to yell died in his throat.

The Time Lords weren't playing Parcheesi anymore. They'd set up some sort of contraption by the head of the table now, a large, clear plastic ball with dozens of smaller balls inside, all bouncing around as if on vacation. The Time Lord nearest to the contraption reached in and pulled one out.

"B-42," he read off the ball. The Time Lords at the table studied their cards intently. Several of them had more than two or three laid out before them, and each had a stamper in their hands. A few marked the cards with the stamper; the others sat back and waited for the next number.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," said the Master.

"G-63."

"Bingo!" called out one Time Lord, and the rest let out a series of disappointed groans.

"That _pansy_," swore the Master.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Five: Diagonal Left**

Lynda Moss woke with a start, and for a frightening thirty seconds, couldn't remember where she was.

There was a whirring from the corner of her bedroom, and Lynda let out the breath she'd been holding as everything came back to her.

"Mistress?" asked the high-pitched mechanical voice. "Are you well? Your heart-rate has increased and you have woken quite suddenly."

"Yes, K-9," said Lynda, and she flopped back down on her bed. "I'm fine. I'm fine. Just a nightmare."

"Do you require assistance returning to sleep? I could prepare an infusion of hot milk, Mistress. Or perhaps play a lullaby, if you wish."

"No, K-9, go back to your recharge cycle. I have to review the dream first, or I'll go right back into it."

"Understood, Mistress. Sleep well, Mistress."

The little tin dog went straight back into his recharge cycle, his head lowering back to the ground, and his lights dimming to their darkest setting. Lynda folded her hands above her chest, and tried to remember the dream that had woken her so suddenly.

She'd been…on a rooftop. In London, but it was one of those things in dreams where you understood yourself to be in one place, even though it didn't look remotely familiar. Lynda's London was full of skyscrapers, skyways, and satellite dishes. There wasn't a river for miles.

But that's what stuck with Lynda the most about the dream. The river, snaking below her like a glistening necklace. It'd been gorgeous in her dream, the sunlight sparkling on the imagined waves. Lynda even thought she might have been able to smell it.

But…dreams didn't have scents, so it must have been imagined. And anyway, that's not what had woken her. There'd been this…man. An odd one, with hair that looked like it'd been cropped with pinking shears and not washed in a month or more. Homeless, maybe. He looked the part. And he'd said something that startled her, but now Lynda couldn't remember what, exactly.

That was how dreams went, anyway. Once awake, they were never quite as frightening as they'd been asleep. Lynda closed her eyes, and slept dreamless until morning.

* * *

Coffee was already brewing when Lynda and K-9 arrived at the agency. K-9 rolled straight to his corner, ticking merrily away as he started to plug into the computer relays that connected the office with the main networks. Lynda dropped her jacket and purse at her desk, and flicked her laptop open, thinking to check her messages before succumbing to the aromas from the kitchenette. A quick glance at the steadily increasing number indicating how many messages waited for her ("_107?_") convinced Lynda that coffee couldn't wait.

"Hello, gorgeous," said her partner as soon as she popped into the tiny closet they'd converted into a kitchenette, complete with coffee pot, replicator, and, because her partner was old-fashioned, a fridge.

"Don't say it like you mean it," replied Lynda, and dug in the cupboard for her mug.

"I couldn't sleep, so I came in early. First person here makes the coffee, so I hope you don't mind my version."

Having found her mug, Lynda eyed the pot warily. "What do you mean – _version_?"

"It's a bit…thick."

"Is it sludge?"

"Not exactly."

"Well," said Lynda, pouring herself a cup and thinking she might water it down just a little, "there's nothing a whole lot of sugar and milk can't fix. And maybe a chocolate bar."

Jack Harkness grinned, and produced a chocolate bar from his pocket with a flourish.

"Excellent, breakfast," said Lynda, and snatched the bar out of his hand on her way out of the kitchenette. "What's first on the list today?"

"What, no thanks?"

"I haven't tasted the coffee yet."

Jack crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. Lynda took a sip. It took every ounce of willpower she'd ever need for the next twenty years to swallow.

"So," said Jack, as if he hadn't noticed the face she'd almost managed not to make, "I'm guessing you'll have a message you'll want to hear on your laptop."

Lynda found her voice, but it was a close thing. "Oh?"

"Well, he was my first message of the day. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth."

"Who was second?" asked Lynda dryly as she sat at her computer. The coffee cup sat on the far side of the desk.

The voice on the message was young. Well, young-ish, Lynda thought, someone who couldn't have been much older than herself, but probably had seen a great deal more of life. He sounded tired, and frantic, a bit like he'd been awake for a thousand years and was in desperate need of sleep, but had half a dozen things left to do before he could take a breath. Lynda had opened a notebook, ready to scratch a few notes down, but found her pencil simply hovering over the paper, unable to determine what was actually necessary to record.

"I know this is a very sudden thing, and you probably don't have an inkling of what I'm talking about, which is a _good_ thing, mind you, it means he hasn't caught up with you yet, and that's fine, that's just fine, that's perfect, really, except that if he _has_ caught up, I'm very sorry for that, but I have a message for the two of you, and it's very important that you receive it in the manner in which I'm giving it, which is to say that I'm absolutely certain you're going to twist this in a method I didn't intend. Well, _he_ didn't intend. Except nothing's really working out the way he had hoped, he's taking matters into his own hands in a way no one anticipated. I'm sure you're doing the same – actually, I'm just about positive of it, and I'm sure the end result is marvelous, don't get me wrong, you're all doing a bang-up job of it, and I couldn't be more pleased, I don't think he'll have a clue what's going on, which would be very gratifying if you would only stop to—"

The message cut off. Lynda stared at the laptop.

"What on earth _was_ that?"

"More like, who," said Jack. He had taken up residence on the credenza behind Lynda. "You did notice how he didn't identify himself?"

"And he left you three other messages?"

"More than three, all exactly the same, a stream-of-consciousness tirade that basically ends with how clever he is and how inventive we are and how it's very important that we remain so."

"Okay," said Lynda slowly. "So…we're supposed to do what with that, exactly?"

"We're a detective agency, Lynda," said Jack. "I think we're meant to _detect_."

"Great," said Lynda. "Detect _what_? A madman on the message lines?"

"For a start," said Jack. He glanced into the corner. "K-9, can you trace those calls?"

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9, and set to work.

Lynda gave an abrupt shiver, and reached to wrap her fingers around the hot mug of coffee. Jack raised his eyebrows.

"Cold?"

"No," said Lynda defensively.

"You shivered."

"Reflex," said Lynda. "Are you going to sit there and stare at the back of my head all morning?"

"Not if you turn around," replied Jack. "And you still haven't said thank you for the coffee."

"Noticed, did you?" countered Lynda. She spun her chair around; Jack grinned at her. "Sorry. I had an odd dream last night."

"Was I in it?"

Lynda frowned. "I…I don't think so. I was in London. But it wasn't London. At least, I didn't recognize it. And there was a river."

"London used to have a river," said Jack, and took a sip of his coffee.

"What? You're kidding. How do you know that?"

"Didn't you ever read a history book?" asked Jack. "The Thames was a tidal river, and dumped into what used to be the Channel between here and France. You know, where Europa is now. It zig-zagged right through London. Dried up about a thousand years ago, but I think there's some tributaries under the ground somewhere. That's why London's here, you know – it was built here because of the river."

"How do you know all this stuff?" asked Lynda before she could stop herself.

Jack studied his cup. They'd known each other for three years running now, but Lynda still didn't know very much about Jack Harkness. He'd found her about six months after she had won the Big Brother contest, with a proposal to start a detective agency. It didn't matter that Lynda didn't know anything about investigating anything – it was her notoriety that Jack wanted initially, and the sweet innocence that would allow clients to feel as though they could trust her.

It worked. The detective agency was massively successful, and their clients still saw Lynda as the sweet, innocent girl they'd voted for on the Big Brother house, so they tended to spill more information than they'd initially intended. It never occurred to them that Lynda had bypassed sweet and innocent and moved onto thoughtful and perceptive. Jack wasn't the only person holding his weight as a detective.

Whether or not Jack still wanted Lynda only for her notoriety was up for discussion. Or not, Lynda thought wryly.

Lynda didn't wait for an answer to her question. Jack was enormously private. If he had a thing for studying London's ancient history, that was his business. She spun her chair back to her laptop and began clicking on the various messages.

"Mistress," said K-9. "I have located the origin of the telephone messages you requested."

"Don't keep us in suspense," said Jack. He sounded perfectly normal. Lynda wondered if she'd been imagining his discomfort.

"They originated from 76 Totter's Lane, Shoreditch."

"That's it?" Lynda frowned. "What level?"

"There is no level, Mistress," said K-9.

"There has to be a level," protested Lynda.

"There is no level, Mistress."

"What if it's on the surface?" asked Jack. "If it's an old enough address, it wouldn't have a level."

Lynda frowned. "I've never even _heard_ of addresses that old before."

"First time for everything," said Jack. He hopped off the credenza. "What are you waiting for? Haven't you ever wanted to go down to the surface?"

A flash of the remembered dream, the river winding its way through London. A river that according to Jack once existed but hadn't in centuries. And yet, Lynda had seen it in her dream.

"Sure," she said, "let's go."

* * *

The trip down to the surface took some time. It wasn't that it was difficult to go – it was only that no one ever really _went_. This might have been because public transport didn't really offer many direct routes. Or perhaps there were no direct routes because no one wanted to go to the surface that often. Either way, getting to Totter's Lane involved transferring between two hoppers and half a dozen lifts or escalators.

"I've been to the surface, you know," said Lynda on the third escalator, just to break the silence. Jack hadn't said anything since they'd left the office, and Lynda had been so lost in her own thoughts, it took her half an hour to realize that Jack had fallen silent beside her. A quick glance showed that he'd been lost in his own thoughts, a half frown on his face.

"Have you?" he asked, only half paying attention.

"One of those stupid things you do in school to pretend you're an adult," explained Lynda. "Didn't you?"

"No," said Jack shortly. "I did…other things."

"Oh." Lynda was dying of curiosity, but after that morning, she wasn't going to ask.

He seemed to wake up then, and turned his gaze squarely on her. "I like history."

Lynda blinked. "Okay."

"How I know about London. I read a lot of history."

"Sure, fine," said Lynda, and in order not to meet his eyes, she busied herself by looking in her shoulder bag.

"You don't believe me."

"Look, if you don't want to tell me anything about yourself, that's fine," said Lynda, blinking quickly. "It's not like we're anything but business partners. I don't have to know all your deep dark secrets or what stupid things you did as a teenager in order to have a purely business relationship with you."

"Purely business…." echoed Jack.

"Exactly," said Lynda as the escalator brought her to the next landing. She hopped off and started marching to the lift on the far side of the platform. "If you don't mind—"

She was wrenched back as Jack grabbed her hand, and stumbled against him.

"Not the lift—" he'd started to say, but the words caught in his throat when Lynda fell against his chest. He swallowed whatever he'd been about to say.

Lynda's heart hammered in her chest; Jack himself might have been able to feel it. She'd never had such a good look at Jack's face before, and it struck her then how _human_ he looked. The way his cheeks were flushed, and his breathing caught in his throat. The way his eyes were wide, looking at her.

Which was an odd thought – of course Jack was human. What else could Jack be?

But there was something else…something wrong. "It healed," said Lynda, reaching up to his cheek.

"Huh?"

"The cut on your cheek, when that client with the ring punched you. It healed. Perfectly. I thought for sure you'd have a scar."

Jack reached up and touched his cheek; Lynda only moved her hand in time. "Yeah," he said. "I guess it did. Lynda—"

She didn't wait for it. She almost didn't want to hear what he was going to say; her heart was pounding too hard for her to hear anything properly. "We have to keep moving. We're almost there."

"Yeah," said Jack, and followed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars include Lynda Moss and K-9.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Six: Star**

The Master did not have a plan.

He did, however, plan to go prepared. He swiped a legal pad from the scorekeeper (who protested, but was properly ignored). A pencil procured from a second Time Lord (who only sighed and gave up the writing utensil with minimal, perfunctory protest) served to fill in what blanks the Master was able to fill.

"Delta-263," he shouted at the rest of the Time Lords as he stuffed both tools into his back pocket.

One of the Time Lords looked up with a frown. "Don't be ridiculous, there isn't a Delta-263…"

But the Master was already gone.

* * *

Lynda Moss picked up her notepad again. The cursor was still blinking on the space where she ought to have been writing about her happiest moments. Without even pausing to think, she began writing again.

_I'm happiest when I'm so busy trying to keep up, I forget how bored I am the rest of the time._

Lynda looked at the words, and thought.

"You know, staring at the notepad isn't going to make an answer magically appear," said the man in the sweatshirt.

The notepad fell to Lynda's desk with a clatter. "Where'd you come from? No, wait – where'd you _go_?"

"Long story," said the man. "So, let's get started, shall we?" He took something out of the back pocket of his jeans and unrolled it. "First, it's a bit awkward calling you blonde chit, so do you mind telling me your name?"

"_Yes_," said Lynda hotly.

"I could just call you Jessica," mused the man.

"_Jessica?_"

The man pulled a pencil out of his other back pocket. "So, Jessica, tell me—"

"My name is not Jessica!"

"How long have you worked here at Torchwood, Jessica?" asked the man, tapping the unrolled something with the pencil. Lynda's mouth dropped open.

"That's – that's a _pencil_."

The man looked at it. "Ah, yes. Pencil."

"So that's – paper?" guessed Lynda, pointing at the other item in his hand.

The man waved the item in the air; yellow pages flapped back and forth. "Pay-per," he sounded out slowly for her. "What, were you born in the 501st century? Oh. Wait. You were. Anyway, where were we?"

"Is this a survey?" asked Lynda. "Are you one of those secret shoppers trying to find out how helpful I am? Because you're not being very secret about it."

"_Torchwood_, Jessica, how long have you worked for _Torchwood_?"

"I don't think that's pertinent to your survey, and I'm sorry about calling Security on you before, but you have to admit you were behaving very strangely…"

The man sighed, and tried a different tack. "Ever hear of a bloke named Jack Harkness?"

Lynda blinked. "Why do you keep asking about Jack Harkness?" she asked, growing annoyed.

The Master stopped mid-drum. "I'm sorry? _Keep_ asking?"

"Yes, just now, you asked about Jack Harkness."

"But you said, _keep_ asking. When did I ask before?"

"I…" Lynda thought furiously. "I don't know, when you were here before. Must have."

The Master leaned over the desk. "You remember me asking you about Jack Harkness."

"I…no. But…yes. It's…look, if this is a survey, you're being very odd about it!"

The man checked his paper. "That doesn't make sense. This is the star pattern, isn't it? Has to be – I didn't ask Star Pattern about Jack Harkness, I asked diagonal. So why is it _you_ remember me asking?"

"I have no idea what you're going on about," said Lynda, cross. "And I think I'm done now, so if you've no further business, I'm going to ask you to leave or I will have to call Security. _Again_."

The man slid the paper and pencil back into his pocket, as cool and collected as if Lynda hadn't just threatened him. Again.

"Listen, it's been a real gas chatting you up—"

"_What?_"

"—But I really do have to talk to a friend of mine who works here."

Lynda stared at him, her brow creased. "Okay. What's his name?"

"The Doctor."

Lynda's eyes glazed over momentarily. It was gone almost as soon as it was there. "Doctor who?"

"No idea," said the man glibly. He straightened, and placed his hand on his stomach. "Ooo, interesting."

"How can you not know his name if he's a friend of yours?" asked Lynda, mystified and halfway considering calling Security again.

"Did you not hear me say _interesting_?" asked the man. "You're human, you're a curious lot, aren't you the least bit curious what I find so interesting that I have to comment on it?"

Lynda sighed. "Okay, fine. What's interesting?"

"I'm hungry," said the man.

Lynda picked up the phone. "I'm calling Security."

The man perked up. "Oh, do, that'll be fine. I'd like to talk to Security."

"They'd like to talk to you," muttered Lynda. "Hello, Security? The Code 57 is back. No, I don't think so. I really have no idea. Yes, _thank you_."

Lynda hung up the phone and crossed her arms.

"You look considerably more annoyed this time," said the man. He was now playing with one of Lynda's paperweights – the pretty one made from volcanic ash. "Isn't Security coming?"

"Yes," grumped Lynda.

"Well, then—"

"I don't think they believe you're a threat."

"That's very stupid of them," said the man. He tossed the paperweight from one hand to the next.

"What, _are_ you a threat?"

"Huge threat," said the man casually. "I've destroyed whole worlds, you know."

Lynda considered this.

"I don't know that I believe you," she said, and the man nearly dropped the paperweight. She added quickly, "I mean, sure, you might be capable of it, but so far, all you've done is be annoying."

"I bide my time," said the man, and continued tossing the paperweight. "Wow. I really _am_ hungry. Got anything to eat in that desk of yours?"

Lynda, without knowing why, reached into one of her drawers and pulled out a granola bar. She handed it to the man without a word, and he immediately unwrapped and began eating it.

"Not horrific," he said around a mouthful of granola. "Been a while since I've been hungry. Well, that's not entirely accurate. But this is a normal hunger, you know. I'm not going to start draining life forces from anyone."

"Good," said Lynda warily.

"So – no Doctor on staff then?" asked the man.

"Not anyone who doesn't have a name attached."

"John Smith? James McCrimmon? Theta Sigma?"

Lynda typed a few things into her index, and then shook her head. "Nothing, sorry."

"How about this – you just put a general call to all the doctors you have on staff and tell them the Master is here and let's see who shows up?" suggested the man.

Lynda's eyes narrowed. "The Master."

"That's me," said the Master.

"What kind of name is the Master?"

"What kind of name is Jessica?" replied the Master.

"Is this some sort of game to you?" snapped Lynda.

The man broke into a grin. "Yes! It is! Very good, Jessica!"

"My _name_ is Lynda!"

"Very good, Linda! I'm the Master."

"Master of _what_?"

"Exactly," said the Master, and he took another bite of the granola bar. "Security's running a bit late."

"Yes, well," said Lynda. "Why don't you just sit quietly and wait for them."

"I could," mused the Master. "Any luck figuring out what makes you happiest yet?"

"I'm not having this conversation."

"Déjà vu," said the Master. "What's the show, anyway?"

Lynda gave up. Clearly, there was no getting rid of the madman, who had finished eating her granola bar and was now scavenging for the crumbs at the bottom of the wrapper. On the other hand, Lynda was beginning to agree with Security's assessment that he didn't pose much of a threat; after all, he seemed more interested in antagonizing her than he did trying to go anywhere in the building.

"Big Brother," said Lynda.

The man looked startled. "You're applying for an older sibling? _Why_?"

"That's the name of the show. Everyone is locked in a house and you have to live together and once a week, the people watching decide who should be kicked off, and the last person in the house wins a million credits."

"How Orwellian," said the Master dryly.

"Huh?"

"Not very clever, are you, Linda?" asked the Master.

"Not so much," said Lynda honestly. "But people like me."

"Hmm." The Master leaned over the desk to look at the notepad again. "Is that what makes you happy? Knowing that you're liked?"

Lynda flipped the notepad over. "Look, your friend the Doctor clearly isn't here, and if he is, I don't think he much cares to see you."

"That's true enough," muttered the Master.

"So I think it's time for you to go," continued Lynda.

"I'm still waiting for Security."

"Security isn't coming."

"Can't I just stay and have a bit of conversation?"

"_No_."

Any further argument was halted by the sliding of the lift doors, and the whirring of a tin dog on wheels. The Master stepped away from the desk and threw his arms out wide.

"Ah, Torchwood Security! You've arrived. That is, assuming you _are_ Torchwood Security."

The little tin dog stopped; its little ears spun in circles. "That is my designation. Please identify yourself."

"What, playing at not knowing me?" said the Master, leaning over. "Bad Dog. No treat for you."

"K-9," interrupted Lynda, "please escort this man off the property."

"Affirmative, Mistress," said K-9, and he moved toward the Master to bump against his shins. "I will now escort you from Torchwood property. Please comply."

The Master watched K-9 bump against him, amused. "Aren't you going to interrogate me? Tie me to a chair and demand answers? There ought to be a dank little room with a spotlight and a one-way mirror somewhere in the basements here."

K-9 backed away. "You wish to be arrested?"

"Not particularly. I'd rather find my friend the Doctor, but I think if you—"

"The Doctor is not present," said K-9, and the Master stood up straight.

"Really?" he asked, drawing it out and giving Lynda a grin. "You know the Doctor?"

"The Doctor is not present," repeated K-9.

"Yes, covered that. Late for work today, is he? When do you think he'll saunter in?"

"The Doctor is not present."

The Master resisted the urge to kick the tin beast. K-9 might have sensed this, and backed up.

The Master looked over at Lynda. "No Doctor on staff, is there?"

"I didn't see one!" squeaked Lynda, eyes wide.

"Didn't see, or didn't see to tell me?" snapped the Master, in such a menacing way that K-9 immediately rolled in between them.

"Please vacate Torchwood facilities," said the dog, and its nose began to glow red.

The Master eyed the nose, glanced up at Lynda's frightened eyes, and nodded briskly, as though he had made a decision.

"Well," he said. "I think that's all I'm going to learn on this trip. Linda, works for Torchwood, K-9 is security, and the name Jack Harkness rings a bell. Still don't know anything about ray guns, Linda?"

"No," squeaked Lynda.

"Didn't think so," said the man with a sigh.

"Please vacate—"

"He's gone," said Lynda suddenly. And he was.

* * *

The Time Lords were still working on their cards when the Master returned. They ignored him. He ignored them.

How very interesting – both Lindas seemed to have some kind of reaction when he mentioned the name of the 21st century Torchwood director, although he supposed that could have been simply their association with Torchwood itself.

Or…it could mean that Jack Harkness himself was somewhere in the trap. There were eight squares the Master couldn't see. Jack could well be in one of them. The only question was – which square?

The Master examined his legal pad (Earth-bound, but he wasn't going to be choosy) and considered his next plan.

* * *

**A/N:** In a perfect world, you should be able to see a rendition of the bingo card that the Master has been creating for himself using the clues he's gathered. However, because has rendered me technologically inept (not my usual state of affairs), I've been unable to figure out how to put it here in such a way that you, faithful reader, could understand it. However, if you'd like to see what the Master has worked up, please direct your web browser to:

www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_six dot jpg

In the meantime, if anyone has any ideas how to put what's on that page here, I'd love the help. Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Diagonal Right**

The Master studied his chart. "There's eight squares I won't ever see, because I'm in the center and I won't intersect with them," he told the Time Lords at the table, as if they were listening. "But since I'm in the center square, there's five worlds I can visit, so I should have plenty of opportunity to get an idea of what might be there, based on what's going on in the worlds I can. Piece. Of. Cake. Not like you lot know what cake is."

One of the Time Lords turned to another. "Romana? What's cake?"

"Earth concoction. Comes in a variety of flavors. I liked coconut."

"I hate coconut," said the Time Lord. He looked at the Master. "You can have your cake."

"And eat it, too," chimed in Romana.

"I hate you all," said the Master, and was gone.

* * *

Lynda looked up, ready to snap a witty response – but the man in the sweatshirt was gone.

"Damn," she swore, and went back to the control panel. Just as quickly, she went from being aggravated by the Master's presence to being aggravated by his sudden disappearance.

Also, he was _right_, which was even worse. Three ray guns left, ninety seconds to disable them. Of course, just _one_ ray gun wouldn't bring down the Sycorax ship, but that was almost worse – a half-hearted shot might convince the Sycorax to turn around and fire on London, and there was no way _that_ would end well.

Lynda decided that if such an event occurred, she wasn't going to go back. Going back would amount to being fired, and if necessary, Lynda could just set up shop in the 21st century and do very well.

Lynda slammed the control panel shut and hurried to the next, and didn't notice that the Master had returned until she slammed into him, knocking them both over. He fell on top of her. Lynda screamed.

"Hello to you, too," said the Master. "Ow."

"Get out of my _way_!" yelled Lynda, and scrambled out from under his legs. The Master didn't stop her, but he didn't get up, either. Instead, he rolled to his side and propped his head up on his hand.

"Whattcha doin'?"

"I thought we had this conversation already."

"I'm just wondering why you're going so fast?"

Lynda didn't answer him.

"Since time's stopped and all."

Lynda looked up.

The world was….different. Lynda wasn't sure how she hadn't noticed it before; then, she'd been so intent on disabling the ray guns that it was no wonder she hadn't noticed that the pigeons on the far end of the rooftop had not only stopped cooing, but they'd stopped making any sort of movement at all. One was even perched on the edge, just about to take flight. Its wings were spread, and only its toes touched the wall. Lynda's mouth dropped open, and then she quickly scanned the sky for the Sycorax ship.

It hung just above London, exactly where it had been the last she looked. There was a plume of smoke coming from one end, motionless.

"What the—?" began Lynda.

The Master held a chunky, golden metallic contraption in his hand, a bit like an extremely long ballpoint pen. "Advantages of being a Time Lord. Ever run into one?"

"No," said Lynda, and blinked.

The Master sighed. "There you go blinking again. No matter. I've got a few questions, and since you're on a rather tight time frame—"

"How are you doing this?" demanded Lynda.

"Says the girl with a Vortex Manipulator on her wrist?" asked the Master, eyebrows raised. "You jump through time, I stop it. I could give you a demonstration, but it would require starting time up again…." He wiggled the golden rod in his hand, almost a taunt in itself.

"No," said Lynda quickly. "It's okay, I believe you. Thanks." She wasn't entirely sure he deserved the gratitude, but no way would Lynda look a gift horse in the mouth. She continued working on the control panel. Her heart was still pounding, and her fingers shook. She wasn't sure if it was nerves or the effects of whatever he was doing with the way time moved.

"Right, so," said the Master. Out of the corner of her eye, Lynda saw him sit up and pull a wad of rolled up paper from his back pocket. "You _don't_ work for Torchwood, is that correct?"

"No," said Lynda, concentrating on the connections. Blue from green, remove the red, hold the purple for five seconds, replace red with yellow as purple is released….

"Have you ever?"

Lynda snorted.

"I'll take that as a no?"

Blue back to green, depress purple again, seven seconds…

"But this is Torchwood, where we are. And you're here. You came specifically to _Torchwood_."

Lynda froze. "Are you Torchwood?"

The Master held up his playstick again. "Don't insult me."

"Sorry!" muttered Lynda, and returned to the panel. Had it been seven seconds already?

"Know any tin dogs?"

"I could get this done a lot faster if you _stopped talking_."

"What part of _frozen time_ did you not understand? You aren't very clever, are you?"

"No," said Lynda sweetly, "but people say I'm sweet."

The man froze. "Say that again?"

Lynda glanced at him. "I graduated top of the training class. I know what I'm doing."

"That's not what you said."

"What are you, deaf?"

"And people call you _sweet_?"

Lynda ignored him.

"Do you know _anything_ about Torchwood?" asked the Master.

"I know I have one more ray gun to disable," said Lynda. "And that they keep a madman on their rooftop."

"So you don't even know _why_ they're firing at that Sycorax ship?"

Lynda glared at him.

The Master stared at her for a half-second before he started laughing. "You _don't_! You're just a corporate drone!"

"I am _not_ a corporate drone," hissed Lynda.

"Oh, this is too much," giggled the Master. He looked at his papers again. "Let's recap. Your name is Linda—"

Lynda froze. "How do you know my name?"

"You told me," said the Master, not looking up. "You don't work for Torchwood, never have never will—"

"No, go back," said Lynda, her attention torn from the control panel. "I didn't tell you my name."

The Master frowned. "No, that's right. The other Linda did."

"_What_ other Lynda?" said Lynda, growing more frantic now. "A future me? Did you meet a future me, and she told you my name?"

"_Our_ name, actually, if you're referring to yourself in the plural," corrected the Master. "But no, I didn't meet a future you. She couldn't disable a ray gun if it came with pre-printed instructions, apparently."

"She _who_?"

"Oh, I forgot," said the Master, eyes still on his papers. "Don't suppose you know any other blonde chits? But better hair and more buxom?"

Lynda stood up. She walked over to the Master. She slapped him.

Hard.

And she waited, while the Master dropped the papers to his side.

"You slapped me," he said dully.

"Oh, you noticed?" said Lynda icily.

"You _slapped_ me," he repeated.

"What, sweet people don't go 'round slapping madmen?"

"Well, no, but it's more that you slapped me and you're not running away."

"Planning on throwing me off the rooftop?" asked Lynda. "Kind of put a damper on your history of meeting me in the future, wouldn't it?"

"I didn't meet a future you," said the Master, exasperated. "And anyway, time doesn't work like that."

"How do you know my name?" demanded Lynda.

The Master frowned and looked over her shoulder. "You're not disabling ray guns anymore."

"You stopped time," Lynda pointed out. "So I'm not exactly in a hurry."

He rubbed his cheek. "You don't know any other—" A quick glance at Lynda's tumultuous eyes made him swallow. "Just asking."

"No," said Lynda icily. "All my friends are brunettes. And none of them are into guys."

The Master swallowed.

"I'm going to disable the last ray gun now," said Lynda. "You're going to keep your mouth shut."

Lynda headed back to the last ray gun. Already the adrenaline was beginning to wear off – and her hand was tingling a bit from the slap. Lynda couldn't believe she'd actually _done_ it – she'd never so much as killed a spider in her life, and here she was, disabling ray guns on rooftops and slapping madmen for insulting women everywhere.

Also, it had been _fun_. She might have to take up slapping as a hobby.

"They call you sweet?" asked the Master.

"Who knew?" said Lynda saucily. But when she looked over her shoulder, he was gone.

Time, however, lurched straight ahead, and with the onslaught of noise and pigeons taking wing, Lynda raced for the last ray gun, her heart pounding in her chest, the adrenaline back in her bloodstream.

* * *

The Time Lords were still working on the same cards when the Master returned.

"She _slapped_ me," he said, affronted.

"Told you humans had some redeeming value," Romana said to the table in general.

"Oh, shut _up_!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is K-9.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Vertical B**

The Master couldn't resist. "I'm on my way out of this fly trap," he told the Time Lords at the table.

"N-17," droned the Time Lord with the balls.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say," replied the Master, and was gone before the next number was called.

* * *

The Master was in a jungle. A deep, wet heat settled onto his skin, almost as inviting as it was repulsive. Thick green vines made loops above his head, with small ants scurrying to and fro on their own missions of destruction. Somewhere to his left, he could hear the hooting sounds of birds in flight, conversing about this and that and the other thing, and there was the distinct feeling that a creature crouched amongst the low leaves, its eyes centered on his hearts, waiting for the precise moment to strike.

The Master giggled in glee. "The fifth story," he chortled to himself. "I'm in the fifth story. Oh, this is brilliant, this is absolutely _brilliant_. Chloris? That's a ruddy good planet. Deva Loka? The Kindas are a bit dull, though. Better not be Kembel. Not the right sort of plants for Spiridon – hope not, anyway…."

The Master crossed his arms and waited, bouncing on his toes a little.

Nothing happened.

"Oh, come _on_," he groaned. "Every other place, something happened almost immediately. You're not going to make me put _effort_ into this, are you?"

The jungle continued with its jungle sounds.

"The only place where something didn't happen was…" The Master blanched. When he got over it, he shouted so loudly, the leaves all around shook. "_K-9_!"

There was a whirring sound, and from the leaves behind him, a small tin dog rolled out onto the strangely hard-packed jungle floor.

"You called for me, Master?" asked the little tin dog.

"Either my chart is wrong," said the Master icily, quite an accomplishment in the sultry heat, "or you're back to being the Manager again."

"Affirmative, Master."

"Well, which is it?"

"I am sorry, Master, I do not understand the query."

"Which is correct, that my chart is wrong or that you're the manager?"

"Both theories are correct, Master. Your chart is incorrect, and I am the Manager in this world."

The Master groaned, and rubbed his eyes. "Why the bloody fockin' _hell_ are we in a jungle?"

"I do not know, Master."

"_You're_ the Manager."

"Affirmative, Master. My function is to provide you with your fantasies."

The Master stared at the little dog through his fingers. "Fantasies? You said that before."

"Affirmative, Master."

The Master pulled the sheath of papers out from his back pocket and examined it. "Right. Fantasies." He scribbled something down. "So exactly what made you think my fantasy was a jungle?"

The rewinding whirr, and then the Master's voice again. "_…out of this fly trap…_"

The Master frowned. "A jungle is a fly trap?"

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9. "A jungle on Spiridon."

Somewhere above their heads, one of the vines began to move.

"We need to work on your definition of fantasies," the Master told K-9.

"Affirmative, Master."

"But for now, I'd advocate finding another one of my fantasies to emulate."

The first moving vine was joined by a second. The Master eyed it warily.

"I cannot determine which fantasy to fulfill without some assistance on your part, Master," explained the little tin dog.

"Anywhere not here," said the Master flatly, watching a third vine join the other two. They seemed to be…._weaving_ something.

"Do you have any specific recommendations, Master?"

The vines completed their weaving dance, and began to drop, quite suddenly, toward the Master's head. He could just make out the series of mouths visible under each of the leaves.

"NOW, K-9, GET US OUT OF HERE NOW!"

_Blink_.

"I hope this is to your liking, Master," said K-9.

The Master's hearts were still pounding. For a moment, he wasn't all that certain that the chandelier hanging above his head wasn't still a set of carnivorous vines from the jungle planet of Spiridon, where the plants were more animalistic than the animals themselves. The chandelier's design didn't help; it looked very much like three vines interwoven together, dark iron twisted in what he was sure was meant to be a decorative pattern, but really looked more like something that might try to pop his head off had it fallen on his shoulders.

It took a moment before he looked around and noticed that the nearby chairs and tables had been worked in the same design. The only difference was that sitting on the chairs at the various tables were half a dozen families, all dressed in their Sunday Edwardian best and eating extremely large ice cream sundaes.

"An ice cream parlour?" asked the Master. "My fantasy is an ice cream parlour?"

"The air is cold and dry. The mammals are the ones eating the plants, not the other way around," explained K-9.

"Ice cream is plant life?"

"I thought you would enjoy this more than a salad bar."

The Master sat down at the nearest table, where a young boy was greedily working on a Knickerbocker Glory. A spoon lay next to the glass; the Master wasn't sure if it'd been there all along, or merely appeared as he was sitting down. It didn't matter. He used it to take a rather substantial spoonful of meringue and cream, and began licking it off. The boy didn't seem to notice, which took some of the fun out of it, but the Master kept licking anyway.

"So," he said in between licks. "You're here. And you fulfill my fantasies."

"Affirmative, Master."

"You're not associated with Torchwood here, but you are in other locations."

"Affirmative, Master."

"Name Linda mean anything to you?"

"Affirmative, Master."

The Master's eyes narrowed. "You aren't just saying yes because you think I want to hear yes, are you?"

"Negative, Master."

"Good." The Master took another helping of ice cream. The boy frowned briefly, but did not protest. "Well, go on. Tell me about Linda."

"Linda. The word means 'beautiful' in the Spanish language, designation Earth. It is a common name for Earth women, although some men in the Earth country of South Africa bear the name, where it means 'one who is waiting' in the language of IsiZulu…"

The Master groaned. "No, you stupid dog, I _meant_ a _girl_ named Linda, specifically a girl who you might know or interact with in some other lifetime. Blonde chit, perky, thinks she's sweet but so far she's been something of a hellion. Half the time, anyway. And she's associated with Torchwood one way or another."

"Affirmative, Master. I have interactions with a Lynda of that description."

"Finally," said the Master, and went for a third helping of Glory. This time, the boy fought back, knocking the Master's spoon out of the way. The Master retaliated with a swift kick to the boy's chair, knocking him off balance enough that he was able to take another spoonful of meringue and custard. "Right then, tell me about Linda."

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century."

"I knew she wasn't 21st century," snorted the Master, going for a fourth helping of Glory.

"Employee of Torchwood—"

"_Ha!_"

"—as Lobby Receptionist. Contestant on the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House."

"She must have filled out that question finally," said the Master. He waited, but the little tin dog didn't say anything further. "Well, go on. That all you got?"

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century."

The Master groaned. "You _said_ that already."

"Employee of Unified Intelligence Taskforce as a Time Flux Operative—"

"Wait," said the Master, sitting up, his ice cream forgotten. The little boy, noticing the sudden shift in attention, quickly began shoveling the ice cream in. "U.N.I.T.? After that telly competition, right?"

There was a pause while the little dog checked his data banks. The Master waited, somewhat impatiently.

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century."

The Master growled. "You _said_ that…."

"Winner of the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House."

"_Ha!_"

"Employed by Harkness Investigative Agency, London."

The Master dropped his spoon. The boy dug frantically at his ice cream.

"Say. That. Again," said the Master.

There was another pause. "Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century."

The Master pulled out his laser screwdriver.

"Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault…"

The Master had already dropped his spoon. This time, he fell out of his chair.

"Daleks?" he croaked. "_Daleks_?"

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9, finally breaking out of his recitations. "Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault and carried in the resultant Time Leap—"

The Master rubbed his face. K-9 fell silent. "You're telling me that Linda Moss has worked for Torchwood and U.N.I.T., been on the telly and won the grand prize, was kidnapped by Daleks and sent through a Time Leap?"

"Negative, Master," said the little tin dog.

"Great, then," said the Master, throwing his hands up in the air. "What am I missing?"

"Lynda Moss did these things. Lynda Moss did not do _all_ these things."

The Master stared at the little tin dog.

The little tin dog, being little and tin and not having eyelids, stared back.

The Master looked at his papers again.

"I don't suppose Linda Moss went in a Time Loop to Victorian England where she met another blonde chit who's getting married to Randolph Spencer-Churchill?"

"Lynda Moss is unacquainted with blondes in Victorian England, Master," said K-9.

"Huh," said the Master, and made some notations on his card. "Okay, about the Victorian England chit. If Linda doesn't know her, then she's got to either be with the ray guns, the Sycorax, or Torchwood. Right?"

"Your theory is incorrect, Master. The girl engaged to marry Sir Randolph Spencer-Churchill is not associated with any of those items."

The ice cream parlor fell silent, save for the frantic scraping of a spoon against a nearly empty Glory glass.

"Well, fuck," said the Master finally. "My card's wrong."

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9.

The Master stood up. The boy at the table, his face now covered in chocolate sauce and cream, cowered.

"You ate the cherry, didn't you?" said the Master coolly.

"Yessir," whispered the boy.

"Figures," said the Master. He glared at K-9. "Don't suppose it's in your managerial duties to give clues, is it?"

The little tin dog whirred for a moment before speaking. "Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century."

The Master groaned.

"Former contestant on Big Brother House, 4,568th rendition. Successfully repaired TARDIS Chameleon Circuit during 100 Days Wait following the Dalek invasion of Earth."

The Master slowly unfolded the papers and stared.

"Double fuck," he said. "That's five stories for Lynda."

"Affirmative, Master," confirmed K-9.

The Master marched over to the counter, where it only took a moment to determine the location of the cherries. He quickly scooped up the entire container, and with a last disturbingly evil glare at both boy and tin dog, was gone.

* * *

"That _wanker_," he swore at the other Time Lords. "_I'm not the center square_."

The Time Lords looked at each other.

"Anyone up for Mahjongg?" suggested Romana.

"Eh," said the Time Lords.

"Oh, go piss yourselves," snapped the Master, and went to sulk somewhere else.

* * *

_To see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browser to:_

www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_eight dot jpg


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is Malcolm Taylor.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Horizontal G**

It had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not Malcolm Taylor liked or disliked working for U.N.I.T. He left academia, he needed a job, U.N.I.T. offered him the most competitive salary and benefits package, it was far enough from his mother that he had a ready-made excuse for why he couldn't see her every Sunday afternoon for tea, and that was the end of that.

Sunday afternoon teas with Malcolm's mum were often followed by Sunday evenings watching the telly, in between his mother's gentle prodding about when he would find a girlfriend, get married, buy a house instead of renting that ridiculous rat-trap of a flat above the Indian take-away (how did Malcolm stand the smell?), and perhaps most importantly, have some children. Oh, grandchildren would be such a comfort to her in her declining years – fancy them playing at her knees while she knitted lovely socks and hats and scarves for the little tykes. Malcolm, can you turn up the volume just a titch? And perhaps a spot more tea?

Malcolm didn't have time to look for a girlfriend, which precluded any possibility of getting married. He liked his ridiculous rat-trap of a flat with its convenient and delicious-smelling Indian take-away downstairs.

As for children, Malcolm didn't quite see the _point_. He turned the volume up on the telly and poured his mother another cup of tea.

Monday through Saturday, those were the days Malcolm liked best. It wasn't because he liked his coworkers – frankly, he was afraid of some of them, most of the time. It wasn't that he was that fascinated by the alien races or languages or ideas he heard on a near-daily basis – Malcolm thought France just as strange as Sontar, truth be told. His commute was pleasant, the dining hall was adequate, and if he didn't have a window – well, no one had windows, not with U.N.I.T. Headquarters located under the Tower of London. But at least there were several extremely cheap fish and chip shops nearby.

No, what Malcolm liked best was the _things_. Nearly every day since he'd begun working at U.N.I.T. six months previously, Malcolm came to work and found, on his laboratory table waiting for him, a _thing_.

Malcolm _adored_ things. Above all, it was the moment in which he would pick up the strange _thing_ and turn it over in his hands, feel the energy pulsing through it, give it a sniff to smell the dioxins and carbons and metallic tangs. Sometimes, Malcolm would spent an hour or even two, if the item was large and complicated enough, simply holding it, looking at it, studying every twist and turn molded into it.

His co-workers thought him strange for this practice. They scoffed that he was idling away company time, a waste of resources. Just stick it under the microscope, take a scraping, start _doing_ something already instead of staring and dreaming, Mr. Taylor!

Malcolm ignored them. He could afford to do this; he would always have solved whatever problem the mysterious object posed inside a week, while the rest of them scratched their heads for another month. His supervisors didn't mind what Malcolm did. Carry on, Mr. Taylor, good show, see you in the morning.

Had Malcolm surrounded himself with mysteries, from the moment he woke in the morning to the moment he lay his head down at night, he would have been happily oblivious to the world beyond. It was the mysteries that brought Malcolm joy: the knowledge that once again, there was a curious object in his laboratory which needed unraveling. It was the anticipation of the work such unraveling would require, the foreknowledge that eventually he would break through the code, the way his mind spun in a thousand different possible directions before settling on the proper solution.

Malcolm, above everything, loved the sensation of _not knowing_. Considering he knew just about everything else, the thrill was usually temporary, and appreciated all the more for its impermanence.

Malcolm was the first person in the laboratories on Tuesday morning. This was hardly surprising; the weather was abysmal, snow and sleet and hail and everything in between, most unusual for London. Malcolm took no special notice. Malcolm never noticed. He simply added an extra layer of socks before slipping on his galoshes, and tucked an extra umbrella under his arm for when the first one blew out.

It was preoccupation, really. Magambo had insinuated that there would be something waiting for him in the morning in his laboratory, and it had been weeks since the last mystery. Malcolm had barely been able to sleep with the excitement. The entire world could have collapsed, and it been raining budgies and prawn mayo sandwiches, and Malcolm would have just added an extra layer of socks and tucked an extra umbrella under his arm before leaving his flat.

Malcolm took a moment before opening his laboratory door. He inhaled deeply, imagining he could taste ignorance in the air itself. Malcolm could never decide if it tasted like carbon paper or the scent of the laundry detergent his mother used.

The laboratory was empty.

Empty save for his desk, his worktable, his notes, his computer, his various phials and solutions and microscopes and too many scientific objects to name. There was nothing there which had not been left the night before. Malcolm felt himself deflate. He was no less intelligent now than he had been twelve hours ago, and this was a disappointment of the highest order.

With a sigh, Malcolm set to the work he'd been hoping to avoid for another few days.

It was another hour before someone else straggled into the laboratories. Malcolm could hear the newcomer banging their umbrella on the floor as they walked, but he was busy concentrating on the speck of dust in his microscope and did not realize he had obtained company until the person spoke.

"Blimey, what the hell is that?" said Martin Emery.

Malcolm did not fall off his stool, though it was a near thing. "Iostropic half-mass from a Dilurzian raicode tube," he said, not turning around. "Please don't interrupt me when I'm working, Emery."

Emery walked up to the empty laboratory table. He leaned over and peered at the empty space. "I didn't think half-masses looked like that."

"How do you know—" began Malcolm, before he realized that Emery wasn't looking over his shoulder at the microscope. He frowned. "What are you looking at?"

"That's what I wanted to know," said Emery. "Odd looking thing, isn't it?"

"Er, yes, suppose so," said Malcolm warily. He squinted at the table. It was still empty.

"Don't envy you this one," continued Emery. "Do you think the caf will be open today? I could do with elevenses."

"It's half-nine."

"Right, do you think the caf is open?"

"No idea," said Malcolm.

"I'll just go check," said Emery, and was gone.

Malcolm waited until Emery's footsteps had faded down the hall before he walked over to the table.

It was still empty.

He leaned over and rested his chin on the edge, to get a different angle. Nothing.

He set his palms down flat on the table, and felt nothing but the cool metal surface under his fingers.

He turned out the light, and the laboratory faded into black. Nothing.

He pressed his ear to the table, but there was no humming vibration.

He waved his arms over the table, but felt nothing but air.

It was only when he checked the radiant temperature of the room that Malcolm realized what was wrong.

The air above the table was exactly 32 degrees Celsius colder than the rest of the room.

Malcolm sat down on his stool and breathed in the scent of ignorance. For the first time in his life, he did not like it one bit.

* * *

Malcolm Taylor had never once, in his entire career, left work early.

Technically speaking, he wasn't leaving work early today, either, but that didn't mean he didn't feel somewhat guilty as he slipped out of the laboratories and headed toward the Tower Bridge entrance. It was difficult to walk with confidence when he wasn't entirely certain of his welcome, but there wasn't anything else for it. Malcolm had taken every reading he could think of taking on the odd temperature abnormality above his work table, and despite now knowing that the temperature drop had a very precise shape and was the exact temperature throughout, he didn't know much else. His normal recourses were denied to him: he could neither touch nor examine nor compare what he could not see nor feel, and therefore, there was only one thing to be done.

He had to talk to the source.

The source, in this case, was Captain Magambo.

Magambo scared Malcolm more than any other U.N.I.T. employee. Malcolm wasn't sure if it was the fact that she never, ever had even thought about possibly smiling, or if it was because on his very first day as scientific advisor, he had spilled his soup over her jacket, stepped on her toe, accidentally locked her in the janitorial closet, drunk her tea, breathed her air, and then had the audacity to apologize for any of it.

"She's on site," said the secretary. "And she's turned off her mobile. _Again_."

"Oh. I. How. Long?" asked Malcolm, stammering. Magambo's office was strangely sterile, devoid of any personality, save for a single, extremely long, extremely sharp spear that hung on the wall behind what Malcolm assumed to be Magambo's desk. He could see this spear from where he stood opposite the secretary's desk, and despite the plethora of things to examine elsewhere (the secretary seemed to have a fascination with cats), Malcolm could look nowhere else.

"All day, I should think," said the secretary crossly. "I _told_ her to switch on her mobile, but she's just awful. Isn't she?"

"Ah. Yes. No." Malcolm swallowed. "It's only – I need to talk – there's something she – it's very important – well, not so important. It's something—"

"You could leave a message, Mr.—?"

"Will she be back in the morning?" asked Malcolm eagerly.

"I don't know, maybe not," said the secretary with a bit of a sigh. "But she might call in, so really, I could just tell you stopped by, Mr.—?"

"I don't know if it can wait," said Malcolm. The spear wasn't _moving_, was it?

"You could always go find her," said the secretary.

Malcolm tore his gaze from the spear abruptly. The secretary swam into view. "Find her?"

"The site's not so far," she explained. "You could walk it in half an hour, really, and the weather's cleared. I'll just need your name for the clearance list, Mr.—?"

"Go to the _site_?"

The secretary sighed, this time in exasperation. "Well, isn't that what you have a question about? If it's so very important, shouldn't you go and see it?"

"Yes," said Malcolm, suddenly realizing the intelligence of this statement. The air already smelled less of ignorance. "I should."

"So I'll just need your name for the clearance list, Mr.—?"

"Taylor," said Malcolm. "Malcolm Taylor. Scientific Advisor. U.N.I.T."

"Pam," said the secretary.

"Pardon?"

"That's me," said the secretary. Pam. This is Pam, she's a secretary, very important position really, the entire operation would collapse if it wasn't for her, Mum, and she's not overly fond of my flat, either. "Very nice to meet you, Malcolm. Mr. Taylor."

"Ah. Yes. Yes. Pam. Yes. Thank you. Pam. Yes."

Malcolm hurried away, his mind racing.

He returned ten minutes later for directions.

* * *

The site wasn't very far at all, really, and while it might have taken the secretary – Pam, lovely girl, quite fond of cats – half an hour to walk it, Malcolm wasn't sure he could spare the time. At the other end of Tower Bridge, he hopped a cab and was there in twenty minutes. Traffic.

The secretary – Pam, who probably detested Indian take-away – had called ahead, and Malcolm went through the perimeter security without a bit of trouble. It was as he walked toward the center of the site that he began to feel his heart pounding. _Excitement_, he realized. He hadn't been on site at an actual event before. There was something to be said about the thrill of the field, he supposed, as compared to the thrill of the laboratory. Malcolm was rather glad he'd left his laboratory coat on, although perhaps he ought to have taken his parka as well. It was fairly cold, even if no longer snowing, but everyone he passed gave him admiring looks, clearly impressed by his intelligence.

_On site_….there was something in the air. For a moment, Malcolm felt important. He'd heard the various U.N.I.T. teams talking in the caf. You'd never believe the size of the – and then they had the nerve to shoot at – well of course I had to – you could smell the ash in the – who'd want to be lazing with the lab rats anyway?

Malcolm would eat his cheese sandwich like an obedient lab rat and try not to listen.

Now, they were looking at him. As if he were important. As if he filled some crucial position within the framework of the away mission, that should anything untoward happen to him, their very lives could be in danger.

Or perhaps they were smirking at the way his fingers were turning blue.

"Mr. Taylor, what are you doing here?" snapped Magambo from behind him, and Malcolm spun on his heel.

"Ah – question."

"_Question_?"

"About the…item you left for me. In my laboratory."

Magambo did not look one bit pleased to see him. She crossed her arms and stared him down, waiting.

"Ah – where did it come from?"

"Mr. Taylor, these questions are so important that you had to break a secure, sterile perimeter line to ask me?"

Malcolm blinked.

"Sterile?"

And then he noticed that it wasn't so much that he was not wearing a parka. It was that he wasn't wearing the sterile suit worn by everyone else, helmets included.

"Oh," said Malcolm.

Magambo sighed, and walked past him to the center of the site, marked by a line of tape and half a dozen large spotlights. Malcolm swallowed and followed her, unsure what else to do.

"Since you're here," said Magambo, leading Malcolm to believe that she might not fire him that day, at least, "you might as well get a look. This used to be a warehouse, and was bought out to be a new office complex. During excavation, the contractors found this. What do you make of it?"

The spotlights were illuminating a large hole in the ground. A hole which seemed to glow, but it wasn't until Malcolm peered in that he realized it wasn't glowing – it was reflecting.

"Oh my," said Malcolm. He leaned in for a better look. "That's…goodness. Metallic. Quite new, I should think, from the shine."

"Which is very odd indeed," said Magambo. "Because we only just uncovered it twenty minutes ago. From beneath a concrete floor that has been in the ground for the last hundred years."

Malcolm couldn't think of what to say. So he said the only thing he could think of.

"Is this where the item came from?"

Magambo gave him an odd look. "Item?"

"The one you left for me in my laboratory."

"Item?" repeated Magambo. "I haven't left anything in your laboratory yet. _This_ is the item I told you about last night."


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is Sally Sparrow.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Horizontal O**

The Master was Not Happy.

Part of the reason he was Not Happy was because he couldn't think of a better word for how Not Happy he was other than simply saying he was Not Happy. Not Happy did not adequately describe the depths of his Not Happiness.

Angry. Upset. Annoyed. Displeased. Irascible. Smoldering. Wrathful. Tempestuous. Infuriated.

Oo, that was a good one.

The Master was Infuriated. Clearly, not being the center square was a plot to keep him from figuring out the rest of the card, and therefore, unable to escape the Time Lock. That would have been _just_ like the blithering, do-gooder idiot who'd put him there.

"Technically," said Romana, still at the table, "you're the one who jumped into the Time Lock. The Doctor didn't have anything to do with it."

The Master hadn't realized he was speaking aloud. It didn't seem like any of the other Time Lords, save Romana, had heard him. Of course, Romana was bad enough.

Worse, he knew she was right.

"I don't think you looked like Astra at _all_," he snapped, and was gone.

* * *

For a moment, Sally Sparrow thought the painting master, who had been nothing but confusing, might do something drastic after having asked his very odd questions about physicians and their conspicuous absence from Randolph's house. Sally wasn't sure why he was so insistent on a doctor, or even one specific doctor.

Except then – he was gone. Just like that, Sally blinked, and it was as though the man hadn't been just standing there at all.

"Right, so," said the man, and Sally spun around to see him standing behind her. "Just a few questions, then—"

"How did you get there?" Sally interrupted him. "You were standing by the window a moment ago."

"And now I'm over here. Do try to keep up," said the man. "Let's play a word association game. I say a word, and you tell me what you know about it."

"Who _are_ you?"

"Never mind about that," said the man. He pulled a roll of paper out from his back pocket, and studied it quickly. "Torchwood."

"Fires," said Sally immediately. "You're not a painter."

"Well-spotted. Stupid, annoying tin dogs."

"Science fiction," replied Sally. "If you're not here to paint me, why are you here?"

"A very good question. Ray guns."

Sally stilled. The man looked up from his papers, suddenly interested in her silence.

"Why are you asking me about ray guns?"

"Do you know something about ray guns?" asked the man hopefully.

"Nothing," said Sally honestly. "But…you're asking me about ray guns and tin dogs and _no-one_ in 1869 talks about ray guns and tin dogs and you were saying before how I was out of my time and…are you a time traveler?"

The man stuffed his papers back in his pocket. "Well, it's been lovely chatting with you. Have a good time destroying the country. I'm sure I'll see you again."

"Destroying the _country_?" echoed Sally. "What are you talking about?"

The man looked up. "You honestly don't know?"

"Know what?" asked Sally blankly.

"Blondes, it's always blondes, he always had such a thing for dumb blondes," muttered the man.

"I'm not dumb," snapped Sally crossly. "And I can hear you just fine."

"Blondes and gingers," he muttered, and then looked at her. "I _hate_ Earth history, and I still know this bit. Don't they teach you _anything _about your own world?"

Sally's stare flickered between annoyance, confusion, and a growing anger. The man sighed.

"Lord Randolph Spencer-Churchill. The man you're so keen on marrying."

"Yes?" Sally prompted him.

"Is Winston Churchill's father. I assume you've heard of _him_."

Sally swallowed. "Oh."

"Yes, _oh_," snapped the man. "Marry the man if you like, but two things are going to happen. Either you live happily ever after and the world ends when the Germans win – which _yes_, is what would happen, and I'm a Time Lord, plus I'm kind of into disaster scenarios, so I should know – or you're just going to turn toes up in a few years as the universe rights itself so that little Winnie can be born after all."

Sally sat down, clearly bowled over by this new information. "The world can't end with the Germans," she said. "If it did, I wouldn't have been born in 1985."

"You can be born in 1985 and die in 1869," said the man impatiently. "The problem with you humans, you don't understand time. You think it marches on in a nice little line, all neat and orderly, but it doesn't. It's a…a…a great big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey—"

"Whimey stuff," Sally finished with him.

They stared at each other.

"How'd you know that?" asked the man.

"I have no idea," said Sally, her eyes wide. "I must have read it somewhere."

"You couldn't have," said the man. "It's not _written_ anywhere."

Sally rubbed her head. "This is weird."

"You're telling me," said the man. "Are you _sure_ you don't know the Doctor?"

Sally looked up. "You said, 'you humans'."

"Pathetic lot," grumbled the man, sliding down on the sofa and propping his feet up on the nearby table.

"You're not human," said Sally calmly.

"What's that got to do with it?" asked the man sourly.

"Is that it? You're stuck here on Earth, same as I'm stuck in Victorian England?"

"I'm not stuck on _Earth_. _You're_ stuck on Earth. _I'm_ stuck in a Time Lock, and this happens to _be_ Earth. Which is utterly _useless_ to me because I can't leave until I figure out the _card_." The man finished his grumbly tirade by tossing his sheath of papers onto the table, where they instantly curled back into a roll.

Sally reached out and spread them flat in her lap.

"Oh, please, do look at them," groaned the man. "I'd so dearly love to have your input."

"My _name_," she said coolly, "is _Sally_. Not 'first blonde chit'."

"Congratulations."

"You're saying I'm part of your Time Lock?" asked Sally. "And this is the key to getting out? But – it's a _bingo_ card."

"Yes, _ta_, I knew that," snapped the Master. "Don't you think I realize that I've been lurching from story to story trying to find my blasted way out of this bloody thing?"

"Clever," mused Sally. "I mean, if you want to turn a bingo card into a trap. There's no square that intersects with every other square. No matter where you entered the trap, you'd never be able to fill in every blank. And I assume without every blank filled—"

"I'm stuck," said the Master glumly.

"Very clever."

"Yes, you can stop complimenting him now," snapped the Master. "Bloody know-it-all Doctor."

"Not Doctor Johnson down the street."

The Master didn't dignify that with a response.

Sally studied the card again. "Haven't gotten very far, have you?"

"And it's _wrong_," groaned the man, sliding further down the sofa. "Because _I'm not the center square_. You know who is? _Linda_."

"That would be the second blonde chit?" asked Sally sweetly.

"She's got five stories, and she doesn't even _know_ it," said the Master. "All the power at her fingertips, and she's wasting it by disabling ray guns and filling out applications and fixing chameleon circuits, apparently."

"And you would do differently?"

"I would get _out_."

"Exactly why you _aren't_ in the center square," said Sally reasonably. "If you were, you'd have too much information at your disposal, and then you'd be sure to get out. Much better to make you one of these side squares, where you can't do much damage."

The man sat up so suddenly, Sally half wondered if he'd hit a spring. "Say that again?"

"Only that if it were me, and I was putting you in a trap, it'd make more sense to put you in the side, here – you'd have only two options, and you wouldn't really learn anything about the rest of the chart."

The Master grabbed the papers back from Sally so quickly, he nearly ripped them. "I have four stories. I _know_ I have four stories."

"Rather compassionate of the Doctor, wasn't that?" asked Sally. "That's giving you a bit of a chance, putting you in a corner."

"I'll have to thank him when I see him next," said the Master. "Right before I punch his nose."

Sally frowned. "Maybe I shouldn't help you get out of the Time Lock."

"You have no idea," agreed the Master, before doing a double take. "Wait, what?"

"Help you," said Sally. "On one condition."

"I don't do conditions," said the Master quickly, before adding, "What is it?"

"Get me home," said Sally firmly.

"And leave lover-boy behind?" asked the Master scathingly, before biting his tongue in order not to add anything at all.

"I don't want to end the world," said Sally. "And I hate the underwear."

The Master would have answered – although he wasn't sure what, exactly, since he didn't do conditions and didn't care if Sally ended the world or not and _really_ didn't care about her feelings on 19th century underwear in comparison to just about anything else there could be. He _would_ have answered, except the door opened, and in walked a picture-postcard of Victorian England, complete with handlebar moustache and…..

"Bow tie?" asked the Master.

"Bow ties are quite the fashion, young man," said Lord Randolph Spencer-Churchill.

"No, not really," said the Master. He turned to Sally. "Him? Really? Him?"

Sally inhaled sharply.

"I'll agree just because no one deserves that fate," said the Master.

"He made me the _center_ of his universe," said Sally carefully. "And then he got to know me."

The Master grinned at her, and in a blink of an eye…

"Good heavens," said Randolph. "Where did the man go?"

"I expect he'll return," said Sally.

"What _was_ he carrying on about?"

"Oh," said Sally. "Artistic things. I wouldn't worry about them."

* * *

The Master stared at the Time Lords, looking just enough triumphant. "I," he announced, "have an _ally_."

"I have an overcoat," said one of the Time Lords.

"I have a cushion."

"I have a monkey."

"I have a bingo," said Romana triumphantly, and there were congratulations all around.

The Master ignored them all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is Lynda Moss.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Diagonal Right**

"So long, suckers," said the Master cheerfully to the other Time Lords. "It's only a matter of – heh – Time!"

"Bingo!" called out Romana, equally as cheerful, and the other Time Lords groaned.

"Can we stop playing now?" asked one of them. "She keeps _winning_."

"I'm rubbish at poker," said Romana helpfully.

"You said you were rubbish at Bingo!"

"It's like you don't even _want_ to get out of the Time Lock," said the Master wonderingly, but if anyone replied (and he doubted it), he was no longer there to hear it.

* * *

"Who knew?" said Lynda. She hadn't been properly "sweet" since she was twelve, not that she let that on to anyone else. And anyway, the man in the sweatshirt was growing increasingly bothersome, so anything she could do to antagonize him was all the better. When she looked over her shoulder for confirmation of his further annoyance, he was gone.

Time, however, lurched straight ahead, and with the onslaught of noise and pigeons taking wing, Lynda raced for the last ray gun, her heart pounding in her chest, the adrenaline back in her bloodstream.

"Bollocks," she muttered, and it took all of her concentration to stop her hands from shaking. Blue – no, green – no, blue was right. No, blue was on the _left_. What was _wrong_ with her?

"Oh, bloody hell, not you again," groaned a now-familiar voice from behind her. Lynda's hand slipped; she managed to reconnect the wires in the nick of time.

"Would you stop surprising me like that," she hissed. "You nearly made me set the stupid gun off."

"Yeah, tragedy," said the Master, not terribly convinced. "I was hoping it wasn't going to be _you_."

"Should have picked a different rooftop," replied Lynda shortly. "Could you shut up? I'm trying to save the world from annihilation here."

"Not your job," said the Master absently, and he wandered over to the rooftop edge. Lynda wanted desperately to throw something at his head, or maybe just ignore him, but found she could do neither.

"What?"

"The Doctor – he's the one who saves the world," continued the Master. "But you don't know him. Or you say you don't know him. Not that I believe you, of course – there's something distinctly fishy going on here, and it's his doing, and you're part of it, and being a fairly intelligent – no, sorry, the proper term is _genius_ – I've come to the conclusion that you are, indeed, acquainted with the Doctor and thus when you say you don't know him, you're lying."

Lynda's mouth dropped open. "Tell me you stopped time."

The Master lifted his little golden rod and clicked.

Time. Stopped.

"Ow," said Lynda as her skin began to prickle. Her hair, which had been waving in the breeze, stopped mid-wave, and Lynda brushed it back down with the flat of her hand.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Hazard of being human."

"Thanks," said Lynda awkwardly, and went back to her connections. It was hard to concentrate; she wondered if the Master was going to leap off the edge of the roof or not, and if he did, if she'd care.

"So," said the Master, obviously trying to be nice, and even more obviously hating every minute of it, "tell me about yourself."

"What?"

"Tell me. About. Yourself." The Master turned to her now; his face was making strange contortions, as if he'd just eaten something particularly sour.

"Are you trying to smile?"

"No," said the Master, still making the contortions. "I _am_ smiling."

"No, not really," said Lynda. "Look, I appreciate the friendliness, but I've got some work to do here—"

"I froze time for you," the Master pointed out. "You're not exactly in a rush."

Lynda sighed. "Can I just finish disabling this?"

The Master pulled his golden stick out again, and pointed it at the ray gun. There was a whirring noise, followed by a large _bang_. A puff of smoke rose from the ray gun. Lynda fell back to the gravel, skidding just a bit.

"There," he said, pocketing his golden stick again. "Disabled. As you were saying…"

Lynda stared at the ray gun. "What did you _do_?"

"Disabled the ray gun," said the Master, surprised. "Just – faster."

"You _destroyed_ it!" she shrieked.

"That's what you _wanted_!" the Master yelled back.

"Not to _destroy_ it, just to _disable_ it! Destroy it and Torchwood will _know_ someone was tampering!"

"Oh, come off it," scoffed the Master. "Like they wouldn't have figured the same thing out eventually."

Lynda screamed in frustration, and slammed the control panel door closed. It bounced back open again, but considering the ray gun was still smoking (and now letting off a distinctly acrid smell), Lynda couldn't be bothered to close it again properly. Instead, she marched away from the Master and towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he called out.

"Home!"

"You can't go home, I need your help!"

"No!"

"You can't leave me here!"

"Watch me!"

"You know, I'm not killing you, and that's really unusual for me, so the least you could do is stop and _listen_."

Lynda let out a puff of angry air, and turned on her heel to face him. She crossed her arms and glared, waiting.

The Master didn't say anything for a few minutes. Lynda thought he might be at a loss for words – not that she cared, considering she didn't want to really listen to him anyway, but the sooner he started, the sooner she could go home.

"So," he said finally, "what are your hobbies?"

Lynda blinked. "Are you coming on to me? Because you're really bad at it."

"I am _not_ coming on to you!" sputtered the Master.

"I mean, you show up and moan about how you didn't want to see me, and then you stop time and destroy the ray gun, and now you're asking about my hobbies," said Lynda. "Mixed messages, you know."

"As if I'd try to _flirt_ with a human!" shrieked the Master.

"See, there you go again with the insults. I guess you're going to try to kiss me next."

The Master made a choked cry.

"I've got a boyfriend," Lynda informed him. "He's not you."

"I should hope not," said the Master. "Whoever he is, he doesn't deserve you."

As soon as the words were spoken, the Master clamped his hands over his mouth. Lynda tried not to grin.

"He probably doesn't," Lynda said. "But he's kind of waiting for me to get back, and I don't know if you stopping time here stopped time there, and if it didn't, I'm _way_ overdue, so he'll be worried."

"Doesn't trust you, does he?"

"Not much," Lynda admitted. "But I don't trust him either, so it works out."

"He's not the Doctor, is he?" asked the Master suspiciously, and Lynda let out a peal of laughter. "Well?"

Lynda held up her hand, trying to stop her laughter. "Sorry – sorry. Just…" She let out another howl of laughter, and bent over double.

"You know, you're not the only one who has places to be and worlds to destroy," snapped the Master. "Can we _please_ stay on topic so that we can both get out of here?"

"You're the one veering off topic," giggled Lynda.

"Hobbies," snapped the Master. He pulled a roll of papers out from his back pocket. "Spill. Now."

"Grand Theft Spaceport," replied Lynda, choking down the last of her giggles. "You know, the computer game, not the actual event."

"Figures," muttered the Master, scribbling it down. "Jack Harkness."

Lynda blinked. "Didn't you ask me about him before?"

"Might have. What did you answer?"

"Never heard of the guy," Lynda lied, and the Master looked up.

"Now, I find that hard to believe," he said. "You're standing atop Torchwood Tower in the 21st century, and you're telling me you didn't at least bother to do some minor _research_ before you arrived?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Lynda.

"Jack Harkness is in charge of Torchwood Cardiff in the early part of the 21st century."

Lynda couldn't help it; her mouth dropped open. "That's impossible."

The Master didn't miss a trick. "Oh? And why is that?"

Lynda swallowed. "I mean. Irrelevant. This? Is Torchwood _London_." She pointed down.

The Master mimicked her, using his papers to point. "This? _Is still Torchwood_. _And_ you're changing the subject."

"I am _not_."

"Then why do you think it's so impossible for Jack Harkness to be heading Torchwood Cardiff in the 21st century?"

"Because….because…" Lynda racked her brain.

"I'm waiting!" sang the Master.

"I'd know if he was!" she yelled.

"You didn't even do the research!" the Master yelled back.

"It wasn't _relevant_!"

"You're telling me you think you get to pick and choose what parts of history are relevant and what aren't?"

"Well – yeah."

The Master groaned. "Humans – this is how you'll manage to destroy the world without any assistance from yours truly, you know."

"I see we're back to insults now," observed Lynda. "Plus I think I heard some egotistical notes there, too. Very smooth."

"You have no idea how much I'd rather just blow up the Sycorax ship and be done with it," said the Master icily. "Or better yet, activate one of the ray guns to fire at it, so that they'd have good reason to turn around and turn this planet into ash."

"Except you're standing on it," said Lynda.

"It'd be worth it."

"So go ahead," said Lynda calmly.

The Master stilled. "Pardon?"

"Go on," said Lynda. "If you're going to destroy the planet, I suppose now's as good a time as any."

"I could," said the Master, sounding almost defensive.

"Oh, sure," said Lynda, not believing him for a moment.

"I have a history," the Master warned her. "You've probably read about some of it."

"Sorry, wasn't pertinent to my mission," said Lynda with a shrug.

"I am _evil_," insisted the Master.

"So far, you're just talk," said Lynda.

The Master's mouth dropped open. "_Talk? Talk?_"

"That's all I've seen, yeah. Well, plus you stopped time so that I could disable all the ray guns. And you've been chatting me up. And you actually destroyed one of the ray guns, too – not my original intention, but it was well-meant. I'm kind of doubting your evil status here."

The Master made a noise. It did not sound like a pleased noise at all.

"If I didn't know better," mused Lynda, "I'd say you were trying to be…well…_good_."

The Master whipped out the golden rod. "I WILL KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND, GIRL."

"Or you could fire a ray gun," said Lynda sweetly, not worried a bit.

"I destroyed a ray gun! And you didn't want them destroyed!" howled the Master. "How is that not evil?"

"Well, you _destroyed_ it," said Lynda. "I only disabled mine. They could be made operational again pretty quick, really. Yours, though – it'll take weeks of work to get it back to full operating condition. I mean, that kind of makes _me_ more evil than you, doesn't it? Since the ray guns are bad and all."

"You are _not_ more evil than I am!" shouted the Master.

"If you say so," said Lynda gently.

The Master raised the golden rod again. His hand was shaking.

"You know, the amount you play with that thing," said Lynda thoughtfully. "It's almost like you're compensating for something."

The Master turned purple, and then wailed in fury. "I can't kill you, you're the _center square_!"

He disappeared. Lynda could almost make out the smoke from where his head had nearly exploded.

She sighed, and sat down on the nearest section of wall to wait. She didn't think she'd have to wait very long.

* * *

The Time Lords were setting up the next game when the Master popped back into the Control Room. There were cards involved, but beyond that, the Master didn't pay much attention.

"I AM SO EVIL," he yelled at them.

"Of course you are," said Romana soothingly. "Do you want to play Apples to Apples with us?"

"NO," howled the Master.

"Suit yourself," said Romana.

The Master had been about to kick the wall, but left his foot hanging in midair behind him. "You know," he said, suddenly a great deal calmer and much more contemplative, "I think I will."

He disappeared again, and this time, Romana watched him go with a worried expression, wondering just what she'd said.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_eleven dot jpg  
_


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are K-9 and Amy Pond.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Vertical B Detour to Horizontal B**

"Suit yourself," said Romana, and continued dealing out the cards to the other Time Lords.

The Master had been about to kick the wall, but left his foot hanging in midair behind him. "You know," he said, suddenly a great deal calmer and much more contemplative, "I think I will."

He disappeared again, and this time, Romana watched him go with a worried expression, wondering just what she'd said.

* * *

The Master appeared in a very familiar place.

"Oh, yes," he whispered.

The space wasn't large, but the vaulted ceiling sloped upwards in a graceful dome, laid with dark brown and red tiles, all swirled together in an imitation of a storm at sea, or perhaps the red grass fields outside his boyhood home. Black coral archways swooped over the console, sparkling in the blue-green light emitted from the time rotor. The Master laid one hand on the closest archway; it felt rough, like a thousand diamonds under his palm, and he could feel the motors running like a surge of electricity straight through his muscles.

"Now, that's a fantasy," he said to the coral.

"Thank you, Master," said K-9, appearing on the other side of the platform.

The Master smiled. It was not a kind smile.

"This is what she would have looked like, if she'd survived," he said to the little tin dog, running his hands over the coral possessively, lovingly.

"I have examined my databanks for the decorative history of your particular TARDISes, and this was the most obvious outcome," replied K-9.

He turned so quickly, even K-9 did not see it happen. The Master held his laser screwdriver to K-9's nose.

"You're a corner, aren't you? In this fantastically stupid Bingo game."

The dog did not answer.

"You've got two stories I don't have," said the Master. "Show me."

"I—"

"You are the Manager here, and there's a working chameleon circuit," the Master reminded him harshly. "And my laser screwdriver can fry you faster than you could change one bit of what's here. In fact, you don't want to change, because trust me, my next fantasy isn't what you'd like at _all_."

The little tin dog's antenna ears whirred again.

Whirred…..and slowly ground to a halt, as the canine head fell with a snap to its chest, and the lights switched off.

"You shut yourself _off_?" shouted the Master, but his indignation was stopped in its tracks as everything around him shifted, twirled, and at last dissolved….into something completely new.

* * *

Amy Pond would have been enjoying herself thoroughly if it had not been for the hair.

"Please tell me you're joking," she had said to her reflection in the mirror.

"It's the one thing Lucas got right," said the Doctor, and shoved her out of the TARDIS door without another word.

Amy thought she could still hear Rory laughing. It echoed in the back of her head, and Amy ignored the growing headache by contemplating the things she could do – or not do – to him upon her return.

"Lady Pond," repeated the pilot for the tenth time. Amy blinked.

"Oh, right, sorry," she said. "Um. Second star to the left, straight on 'til morning?"

The pilot looked confused.

"Wrong story," she said flatly. "Look, my droid has the coordinates. Just…wait, okay?"

The pilot heaved a sigh.

"Oi, am I not paying you enough?" snapped Amy. "Because I'm pretty sure there were plenty of zeros in that credit transfer. You could stuff it with the sighing, if that's all right by you."

"Yes, Lady," muttered the pilot, and tipped his visor down so she couldn't see his eyes.

Just as well. They made her nervous, those clones. All _over_ the place, one after the other, exactly the same as the next. In the movies, the clones had turned into stormtroopers. Amy thought. She couldn't remember exactly. Rory knew. Rory had watched all six films and refused to buy the first three which were the second three but when they'd been re-released, bunches of stuff had been changed, and he didn't buy the new releases on principle. Rory had long conversations with anyone about who shot first and why the old music was better and who _cared_ if it was the wrong ghost at the end, it was meant to be the way he _would_ have looked had he aged naturally.

Amy couldn't have cared less. No, that wasn't true. The one thing she cared less about was her current hairstyle. It reminded her of photographs she'd seen of the early 1990s, when everyone wore their hair like they'd stuck their fingers in a light-socket.

"Your droid's taking a long time," said the pilot lazily.

"He has errands," said Amy shortly.

"Errands?"

"_Zeros_," Amy reminded him, and the pilot saluted her sharply.

Why did _she_ have to be the one, anyway? It should have been Rory. Rory knew the lingo. Rory knew the story. Rory would have been sitting in the cockpit of the stupid spaceship transport shuttlecraft whatever-it-was, asking the pilot a thousand questions and very possibly taking notes.

"That's _why_ he can't go," the Doctor had explained patiently. "There's….continuity errors. You're better off going in blind than going in misinformed. And since Lucas didn't get much right besides the hair, Rory would end up in real trouble. You, Pond – you don't know a thing. You're perfect."

"Great," muttered Amy.

"Is it here yet?" said the pilot, hopeful.

"Shut up," said Amy, and tapped her toe.

Fly to Tatooine – which was a continent, if you were going to be picky, not a planet – retrieve the idiot Earthling director who had muddled the entire legend for the sake of entertainment, give him a sound kick in the rear for getting nothing right but the _hair_, send him back on his merry way by means of the stupid device she had in her pocket, and get back to the TARDIS. Poste-haste.

"Pond-haste," the Doctor had said cheerily, trying to be cheeky. Amy had considered throttling him, but then he kicked her out of the door and she was stuck.

It was the fez. Making her wear this ridiculous hairstyle was retaliation for having helped River destroy his fez. Not that the fez didn't deserve it, but all the same. She should have made Rory throw the blasted thing for River.

The door to the cockpit slid open. "Oh, thank _God_," sighed Amy with relief, and sat up. "K-9, what _took_ you—"

Her words died away as a man in a sweatshirt and jeans followed K-9 into the cockpit. He wore a grin the size of the Doctor's deceased fez.

"Oh, this is just _brilliant_," he said, delighted. "I loved these movies. Palpatine, he was the _best_. I could have learned so _much_ from him."

"Who?" asked the pilot.

"Oh!" cried the man. "It's a _clone_. You're a _clone_."

Amy winced. The Doctor had told her very specifically never to tell a clone it was a clone. It was considered the height of rudeness.

The clone apparently had missed the memo – or maybe the Doctor shouldn't have been complaining so much about how Lucas had missed a few details. "Is he one of your droid's errands?" he asked Amy.

"I apologize, Mistress," said K-9. "He insisted that he be here."

"Fine," said Amy impatiently, and turned to the pilot. "Let's go."

"You didn't say there would be two people—"

"ZEROS."

The pilot spun around to the controls, and Amy felt the gravitational pull – or whatever it was, she really did NOT care – as the ship went into orbit. The man in the sweatshirt buckled himself into the seat next to Amy.

"So," he said happily. "You're not Leia, the hair's not right."

"Leave off the hair," said Amy shortly. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm the Master."

"Master of what?"

"Everyone keeps _asking_ that," said the Master. "Why do I have to be the master of anything?"

"Well, if you weren't, you wouldn't bother with being called the Master, you'd be the Apprentice or something," said Amy.

"Donald Trump's copyrighted it already. In several star systems." The Master leaned forward and looked out the windows. "Look! Death Star!"

The pilot craned his neck. "Galaxy Tradecraft Star System Explorer, is the proper term for it. My brothers live there. They say it's got a gorgeous pool on the seventieth level."

"It's missing the superlaser," said the Master suddenly. He sounded disappointed.

"The what?" asked the pilot.

Amy grabbed the Master's arm. "Shut up," she hissed. "Look, Lucas got it wrong, okay? Everything you saw in the movies, it was all _wrong_."

The Master glanced at her hair. "That doesn't look too far off."

Amy made a strangled noise, and let go of his arm. "Just….shut up. It's a Galaxy Tradecraft whatever it is, not a Death Star. The clones work as pilots and support staff, not stormtroopers. And Wookies speak English perfectly well."

The Master snorted. "Oh, sure. Next you'll be telling me Tatooine is ice."

Amy closed her eyes and fell back.

"It's not, is it?"

"K-9," began Amy, "why did you bring him again?"

"He requested it, Mistress."

"Anyway, since I'm here," said the Master brightly, and he pulled a roll of paper from his back pocket. "Name?"

"Jane Doe," said Amy.

There was a rustling sound. Amy opened her eyes to see the Master pointing something at her forehead. It looked a bit like the Doctor's sonic screwdriver except gold.

"Let's try that again," he said pleasantly. "Name?"

"Amy Pond," said Amy.

"Lovely. Know any blondes, Amy?"

Amy slapped him. Screwdriver be damned.

"Why do I always get slapped when I ask that?" wondered the Master.

"Gee, let me think," said Amy.

"I don't know where _your_ mind went, but _I'm_ looking for two girls who happen to be blonde, and I want to know if you know either of them," snapped the Master.

"I don't know anyone who's blonde," said Amy.

The Master made a note on his papers. "Does the name Jack Harkness ring a bell?"

Amy blinked. "Sorry?"

"Jack. Harkness," prompted the Master.

Amy blinked again. "Nope, sorry."

"Hmm," said the Master, and made another notation. "Not that I believe you, but we'll move on. Torchwood?"

Amy instantly put her hand over her pocket. "No."

The Master eyed her pocket. "Really? What's in your pocket?"

"Nothing."

He shook the golden screwdriver. Amy sighed, and pulled out the disc. It was about the size of a sand-dollar.

"It's a transporter," said Amy. "That's where he said it came from, Torchwood Tower. In London. I'm supposed to get Lucas to use it to get back home, the nitwit. After I kick him for the hair."

"The hair?" asked the Master, momentarily distracted.

"It's the only thing he got right about this stupid place," explained Amy.

"If he got it right, you can't exactly blame him for it," said the Master.

"Oh, yes, I can," Amy retorted.

The Master made another note on his papers, and then looked up. "So – Jack Harkness brought you the transporter from Torchwood?"

"No," said Amy. "The Doctor did."

The Master's eyes widened. "The Doctor?"

"He's a friend of mine—"

"I know who the Doctor is, thanks," snapped the Master. "I didn't think it would be that easy. No one else is willing to admit—" He glanced down at K-9. "This is because I'm breaking into new parts of the card, isn't it?"

"Huh?" asked Amy.

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9, who would have sounded miserable if he hadn't sounded mechanical. "The Doctor did not take care to hide himself where he did not believe you would find him."

The Master giggled. Amy didn't like the sound of it.

"So, Amy Pond," he said, turning back to her. "Where is he? Your friend. The Doctor."

"Not here," said Amy cautiously. "He wouldn't come with me."

"Chicken," said the Master. Almost fondly, Amy thought. "Don't suppose you know anything about ray guns, Amy Pond?"

"Nope."

"Anyone getting married?"

"Not at the moment," said Amy, wanting to leave Rory out of this man's radar.

The man looked thoughtful. "Don't suppose there's any Sycorax in these parts."

Amy blinked. "Sycorax?"

"Aha," said the Master. He made another notation on his papers before rolling them up and putting them back in his pocket. "Well, Amy Pond, it's been quite an experience. I like the hair. Tell the Doctor that I've got his number."

"Okay," said Amy.

"I'm taking the stupid tin dog," continued the Master.

"I will return at my earliest convenience, Mistress," K-9 assured her.

"Oh, please, you're not going anywhere," Amy told the tin dog. "It's not like he can really take you anywhere."

"Oh?" said the Master, amused.

"We're in orbit. You can't go anywhere until we land."

"That what you think?" said the Master.

He was gone – and K-9 with him.

"Tatooine in five minutes, Lady Pond," said the clone. "Did you want to use one of the parkas in the closet?"

Amy blinked, and touched the transporter in her pocket, just to make sure the Master hadn't used it.

K-9 would return. Otherwise, there wasn't a chance she'd find Lucas on her own.

"Will it crush my hair?" Amy asked hopefully.

"No, Lady. They're designed very well."

"Bollocks," said Amy, and took the parka anyway.

* * *

The Time Lords were shouting each other down over their cards. The Master whistled as he passed the table, not pausing for a moment. In fact, he had no intentions of pausing at all, until—

"K-9!" exclaimed Romana, and the little tin dog following the Master rolled to a halt.

"Mistress," said K-9, its tail wagging with what might have been pleasure in an actual dog.

"K-9," said Romana warmly, and she knelt down to pat the creature on its head.

"Oh, please, it's made of _tin_," groaned the Master. "Don't tell me you know this beast?"

"Don't mind him," Romana told the tin dog. "What are you doing here?"

"Helping me, which none of the rest of you seemed inclined to do," snapped the Master. "He's got one more thing to show me, and then I'm dropping him in the nearest wormhole."

Romana stood up, eyes flashing. "Touch one atom of that dog's casing and I will personally ensure that you never leave this Time Lock."

"Oh, like you don't want out just as badly as I do," scoffed the Master. "Why don't you play Old Maid next?"

"Mistress," said K-9. "Do not worry. I have not been harmed, and I do not believe the Master will harm me."

"Hmm," said Romana, clearly not so convinced. Her eyes narrowed onto the Master. "_One atom_, do you hear me, Master?"

"Right," said the Master, unconcerned. "Ta-ta." He continued walking out of the Council Room.

Romana looked down at K-9. "Don't trust him."

K-9's antenna-ears whirred. "Mistress," he said, and if ever a tin dog could sound completely self-assured, it was K-9. "Do not worry. I trust the Doctor. And his programming."

"Hmm," said Romana, and lost in thought, also lost the next three hands of the game.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_twelve dot jpg_


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Jack Harkness, Lynda Moss, and K-9.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Diagonal Left**

Lynda had forgotten what it was like to have her feet on the ground. The actual ground that _was_, not the imitation ground that existed above and only _pretended_. It felt springy under her toes, as if with every step, she could feel the dirt underneath become just that much more compacted. Lynda wondered, if Earth was so many hundreds of thousands years old, with so many humans before her having walked its surface, how the planet hadn't compacted itself into the size of a tennis ball by now.

"Seventy-six Totter's Lane," said Jack, just in front of her, and he came to a halt outside the dilapidated garage doors, sagging in on each other. They might have been painted once, but now were just a dingy grey with flecks of blue. Or maybe red. It was hard to tell in the half light: one thing about Ground Level, it was dim. Lynda was thankful they'd remembered torches.

"It doesn't look like anyone's been here in centuries," said Lynda. "This can't be right."

"It's where K-9 sent us," said Jack. He flashed the torch over the rest of the building, but there wasn't any other indication of….well, anything. The building was exactly what Lynda might have expected to find on Ground Level; bits of old London popping up, built over centuries ago as the city traveled upwards, to get away from the sewage and smells and sickness that had always plagued it.

And the river. Somewhere, once, there had been a river. Lynda wondered where the river had been, exactly, and if it had come through Totter's Lane.

"What' s a Totter, anyway?" asked Lynda. "And why does it have a lane?"

"Funny question right now," said Jack.

"I can't help when I think of questions," said Lynda, a bit annoyed. "Anyway, you're the expert on Ancient London, Mr. I-Read-A-Lot."

"I _do_ read a lot," protested Jack, and Lynda huffed in response. She forged on ahead.

"Well, let's get on with it," she said, determined. "Ground level's not exactly the safest place to be these days."

The garage doors were difficult to move. Lynda shoved against one for a minute before flashing the torch over at the hinges. It was nearly completely rusted over, and Lynda scowled. "Look at this – how could anyone make a phone call from here, there's no way to get in or out."

"There might be another entrance somewhere," said Jack. "Why wouldn't it be safe down here? There's no one around."

"That's exactly why," said Lynda grimly. "Here, help me shove this open. I don't want to go exploring. I'm not fifteen anymore."

It took two of them using every bit of strength they possessed. There was a dust cloud larger than an autocar before they finished, but one of the garage doors finally shoved just enough that Jack had a chance of slipping through. Lynda was still coughing when Jack knelt down to shine his torchlight through the opening.

"Well, it's not empty," he finally said. "There's about half a dozen things right near the doors, but I can't make out what anything is. Looks like whoever abandoned this place just up and left without bothering to take their things."

"What kinds of things?" asked Lynda, her coughs subsiding.

"Furniture?" guessed Jack. "I'll go first."

"And leave me out here!"

Jack flicked the torch up to light his face. "Would you rather go into the unknown location with the unknown objects looking for the strange man who left a series of stranger messages on our voiceboxes, with only a torch to defend yourself?"

"Yes," said Lynda.

Jack moved away from the doors, and turned his torch back to the entrance. "Your funeral."

"Knock wood," muttered Lynda, and Jack obediently leaned over to knock on the doors.

The first thing that Lynda noticed, after crawling into the warehouse, was the heat. She'd expected anything on the ground level to be cold, but instead, the little warehouse was like a sauna; damp and musty, with air that felt like dirt sliding on her skin. Before she'd even gotten to her feet, Lynda wanted to take a shower, and she rubbed her hands on her jeans. It didn't help.

Jack was right behind her, and less concerned about the cleanliness of their surroundings. He stood up with a stretch, and ran the torch over the warehouse.

"Interesting," he said, as the light fell on various cloth-covered objects.

"What's so interesting about it?" said Lynda, a bit grumpy.

"Storage facility," said Jack. "Except you'd expect one to be cold, not warm. The cooling units must be busted."

"Makes sense for this to be a storage facility, I suppose," said Lynda. "Out of the way, fairly secure in that no one's coming down here anytime soon. Rent's probably ridiculously cheap." She poked at one of the cloth-covered objects. "Jack, there's too much dust here for this place to have been inhabited. We're probably the first people here in years."

"That's not what's interesting," said Jack. He started walking deeper into the building. "Why would anyone call us from _here_? It's not exactly like you could just pop down here for a quick phone call. Unless whoever called us knew we'd follow him, and there's something here we need to find."

Lynda reached over and pulled a white sheet from a nearby object, revealing a moth-eaten dress form. "I don't think this is it."

"I suspect we'll know it when we see it," said Jack thoughtfully.

For the next hour, they wandered through the small warehouse, poking noses under dust cloths and trying not to breathe in the musty fumes, which smelled of mold and decay and some other scents Lynda didn't want to name. "World wasn't always so clean as up on top," said Jack mysteriously, as if he'd actually know, and anyway, everyone really did know that the reason London went _up_ was because the lowest levels had become so infused with disease and pollution that the only place to go _was_ up.

"Half the fun of coming down here when we were stupid was the idea that we'd come back home with a communicable disease," said Lynda as she found a wardrobe with a broken door, a mirror with a broken stand, and a sofa with a broken spine.

"You _wanted_ a communicable disease?" Jack sounded amused.

"You got a week off from school and you were interviewed on the telly, and rumor had it that you would be given straight ones for that year's classes," explained Lynda. "You know, because of all the trauma associated with your recovery. First person to have a communicable disease in three hundred years? We thought it'd be a lark."

"Young and stupid," echoed Jack, and Lynda found a pile of broken suitcases.

"Maybe we're meant to go on a trip and break something," she said.

"That'd be nice, I haven't gone anywhere in years," said Jack.

Lynda flashed her torch across the warehouse, but didn't see him. "Oh? Not even back to the States to see your folks?"

There wasn't an answer.

"Jack?"

The warehouse was silent, save for the creaks and groans of an old building in the dark. Lynda could hear the blood rushing in her ears – or maybe that was the sound of Jack breathing, trying to scare her. It wouldn't be hard; her nerves were already on edge. Lynda might have gone to the ground level when she was a stupid kid – but that was years ago. She wasn't stupid anymore, she knew perfectly well what kind of idiocy it took to go down to the ground levels alone.

Not that she'd been alone. Until now.

"Jack, this isn't funny! Where are you? _Jack_?"

Lynda flashed the torchlight across her path, and when she swept it towards the right, thought she saw something still faintly shining on her left. A closer inspection revealed a space between two of the covered boxes, and Lynda slipped through.

The warehouse here was slightly more open than the rest of the building, but not by much, perhaps ten feet square. Jack stood facing her, but staring at the ground in the center of the open area with a frown on his face. It wasn't the frown that gave Lynda pause, however – it was the darkness in his eyes, the way he held his jaw, and the fists clenched at his sides, as if they alone were keeping him from spilling out onto the ground where he stared.

"Jack?" asked Lynda cautiously.

"The Doctor," said Jack. His tone was even and angry; he bit the words out as much as he spoke them. Lynda's skin rose in goosepimples, despite the heat.

"The Doctor?" she repeated, and Jack glanced up.

"A friend of mine, once," he said. "I haven't seen him in three years."

"I don't understand—" began Lynda.

"Look," said Jack, and he shone his torch on the ground, where there was a square on the floor, clearly visible since it was the only space that was not covered in dust or grime. "That's the footprint of his ship, the TARDIS. He was here, and not too long ago, either, if the lack of dust in that square is any indication."

"But – how'd he get in? We didn't see footprints – and anyway, what ship could fit down here?" asked Lynda.

Jack looked up from the square. Something in his face was…different. "The TARDIS is a ship that travels through time and space," said Jack simply. "The Doctor's an alien. And I think this is what we were meant to find."

* * *

The journey home went by in a blur. Later, Lynda couldn't even remember if there were other people around them the entire time, although she was sure the closer they were to the upper levels, the more crowded the lifts and escalators and airbuses became. The only thing that Lynda really remembered were the words swimming in her head.

_The Doctor is an alien. I read a lot. A ship that travels through time and space_.

"I traveled with him for a few months," Jack explained, but to Lynda, it was like she was hearing him speak on the other end of the ocean. She could hear the whirr of the engines, the rush of the wind, and somewhere in the distance, bells and whistles and other conversations, and under all of them, the sound of Jack trying to explain his lies.

"Went everywhere, we three did. Best time of my life. And then we ended up on the Game Station."

Lynda woke up, briefly. "Game Station? You were there?"

Jack nodded. "In the thick of it, when the whole damn thing blew up in our faces. I was trying to hold the Daleks off, give the Doctor more time. He'd already sent Rose back home – time enough to do that, at least. She was safe."

Something about it – but Lynda had read the reports of the Game Station's destruction. She'd been obsessed with it for a while. She'd boarded the shuttle for Earth only twenty minutes before it had all shut down. For a week solid, her friends and family would stare at her with wide eyes, unwilling to say the obvious: If you'd stopped off at the loo, you'd never have been on that transport. You'd have been dead with the rest of them.

Still. Something rankled. Lynda blinked.

"Rose?" asked Lynda, not really caring about the answer, but having to ask anyway.

"I guess it worked," said Jack, not hearing Lynda. His eyes were far away, probably back on the Game Station, she thought. "One minute I'm facing down the Daleks – but the next, there wasn't anything around me but piles of ashes, and then I heard the TARDIS leave. Just…leave. He didn't come back."

Lynda swallowed. "He – this Doctor. He left you there? Alone?"

"Yeah," said Jack. "Hell of a mess to explain when the rescue squads made it twelve hours later. I was starving and nearly dead of the cold – the heating went down when the systems failed."

Lynda bit her lips. "I thought _I_ was the last one out."

Jack glanced at her. "You were, in a way. Last winner to leave before the whole damn thing fell apart."

It came to her in a flash. "Is that why you found me?" asked Lynda. "Some sort of – solidarity?"

Jack shrugged.

"I thought…I thought you wanted me because of _me_, not because of what I represented," said Lynda, unable to hide the hurt.

"Lynda—"

"Okay, fine, maybe it was the representation. But not for being the _last _of anything. You said you wanted me for being sweet and trustworthy, not sole survivor of a massacre."

"That's not—"

"You _lied_ to me, Jack."

"I didn't lie," said Jack quickly. "I needed your naivety and sweetness as much as your name."

"Oh, _my name_!" cried Lynda. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the other passengers on the airbus begin to squirm – but she was past them now. "You let me go on thinking that you wanted me to represent how trustworthy and good-hearted we were. All the time – you had this great big secret about being the actual last-man-standing up there on the Game Station. How trustworthy is _that_? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"It wasn't important!"

"It sure seems important now that the man who left you there is trying to send you a message."

"He's got nothing to do with why I wanted your help with the agency," said Jack. "Let's leave him out of it."

But Lynda shook her head. "It's got _everything_ to do with him. He left you behind, and now he's dragging us into some dangerous game on the ground levels. And I find out you've been lying to me—" Lynda sucked in her breath. "What else have you lied about, Jack? You….are you even _from_ Earth?"

Jack didn't answer.

"_Answer me!_"

"No," said Jack, and he fell back onto the seat and covered his face. "I'm from the Boeshane Peninsula. It's about a parsec away. You should have colonized it several thousand years ago, but the Daleks got in the way. At the rate your scientists are going, you won't discover it for a few more centuries."

Lynda sat down heavily across from Jack. "C-c-centuries?" she stammered, her mouth suddenly dry.

Jack let his hands drop. "I can't go home, Lynda. Unless the Doctor shows up one day – I can't go home. It'll be decades before the technology even exists on this planet. I don't want to wait that long."

Lynda closed her eyes. Her fingernails dug into her palm. "You….you don't _want_ to wait that long."

Jack didn't say anything.

"You…you could. That's what you're saying. You're telling me…you…._could_."

It was all making sense now. Jack's injuries being healed so quickly. The things he knew that the rest of them didn't. How he'd simply appeared out of nowhere one day, had to be shown how to operate the coffee machine, wasn't sure how the monetary system worked, and the slightly off accent – not quite American, not exactly Canadian.

Still. She opened her eyes.

"You're immortal. That's what you're telling me," said Lynda flatly.

"I don't know how it happened," said Jack. He reached across the airbus to take her hand, but Lynda pulled her fingers away. "I just...woke up. Things kill me, but I don't stay dead."

Lynda's laugh was hollow. "You're telling me you've committed suicide successfully?"

"Multiple times, with one small hitch," said Jack.

The airbus glided to the next platform, and Lynda jumped up. "I'm walking the rest of the way."

Jack jumped up after her. "Lynda, we're still ten miles—"

"Don't, Jack," said Lynda, blinking quickly. "Just…I'll find you. But I have to walk now. Please."

"Lynda, I haven't explained properly—"

Lynda spun on the platform. Jack could barely see her – the entire airbus seemed to agree that this was the stop in which disembarkation was absolutely essential. Through the crowds of people, he could only see the fury on her face, and it was enough to make him back up into the airbus again.

"You're still _lying_ to me, Jack! _Immortal_? Sweet and trustworthy doesn't always mean gullible and naïve!"

"I'm not lying!" protested Jack.

Lynda choked back a laugh or a sob – it wasn't exactly clear which to either of them. "An immortal man? Who on Earth would believe _that_ story?"

The doors to the airbus slid closed between them, and Jack watched as Lynda sped off the platform, somewhere to the city above. He closed his eyes, and let his head fall against the door.

The airbus began to move again.

"I would," said a voice at the end of the car, and Jack looked over his shoulder to the slightly grubby man with the extremely wide grin. He wore a dark sweatshirt and jeans, and Jack might have dismissed him as simply another vagrant, if it weren't for the small, familiar tin dog which rolled out from behind him, its antenna ears drooping.

"K-9?" asked Jack. "What are you doing here?"

"I am sorry, Master," said K-9, lowering its head. "I was not given a choice."

"What do you mean? Who is this man with you?" Jack took a step toward the pair. "How did you—"

The man's smile widened. "I would most certainly believe in an immortal man. If that man was Jack Harkness, that is."

Jack froze. "How do you know—"

"Oh, Jack," said the man softly, "I know so much about you. But there's a little more I'd like to find out…."

The man lifted a thin golden rod – _Just like the Doctor's sonic screwdriver_, thought Jack – and then there was a sharp whirring sound, and a dull pain in his head, and Jack….remembered everything and nothing at all.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Dalek Caan and Jack Harkness.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Horizontal I (and Back Again)**

Dalek Caan had a plan.

It was a good plan, too, except it involved one small potential problem.

Well, not _small_. Actually, the potential problem was fairly substantial, not to mention quick-thinking and possessing full use of opposable thumbs.

Dalek Caan missed opposable thumbs. Okay, fine, having opposable thumbs meant susceptibility to having those thumbs injured or even amputated, not to mention any number of nail fungi, but that was minor when it was an issue of opening the pickle jar.

Dalek Caan missed pickles. Pickles were good. Sometimes, all Dalek Caan really wanted was a pickle.

Like today.

Hence, Dalek Caan had a plan.

(Dalek Caan often went off topic. But he always managed to get back again before too long. It was always best to stay as close to topic as possible, particularly when the plan depended on the Potential Problem remaining asleep in the Barcalounger.)

Dalek Caan rolled slowly toward the kitchen. This was always the tricky part. Roll too quickly, and there would be enough noise to wake the Potential Problem. Roll too slowly, and eventually, the Potential Problem would wake on his own. Dalek Caan went at a speed he hoped was a happy medium.

Dalek Caan had never actually met a happy medium. Usually they were either quacks claiming to see ghosts in order to elicit unsuspecting and gullible clients to fork over obscene amounts of cash, or they were deeply depressed and often psychotic.

Dalek Caan was not psychotic. He might have put on that impression from time to time (and usually did, when telemarketers rang), but really, his head was squarely on his…um…things approximating shoulders.

Dalek Caan missed shoulders. Except shoulders were attached to arms which were attached to wrists which were attached to hands which usually included the dreaded opposable thumb, so Davros had said, "Off with their shoulders!"

(Well, Davros hadn't actually said that, but ever since having seen _Alice in Wonderland_, Dalek Caan had decided that it was a thing Davros might have said, had Davros ever seen _Alice in Wonderland_.)

Dalek Caan did not miss Davros.

Davros, after all, didn't like pickles, or he might have approved of opposable thumbs, and the shoulders that eventually attached to them.

Dalek Caan liked pickles. He picked up speed a little, which was just as well, because there was a bump as he entered the kitchen, and it took the extra burst of speed to get over the bump. It also made a "bump" sort of noise, and Dalek Caan waited for the Potential Problem to potentially wake.

The Problem snored on.

Dalek Caan turned toward the refrigerator, practically shaking with glee. He hadn't tasted a pickle in three hours, at least. Possibly an entire day. It was hard to tell, sometimes, since his internal systems had been fried when he entered the Time Lock in the first place. Dalek Caan didn't remember anymore why he'd tried to go straight from Manhattan in 1930-whatever-it-was to the Time War in its Time Lock. He supposed it seemed like a good idea at the time, but Dalek Caan didn't have a firm grasp on time anymore anyway, so he didn't think it mattered very much. Frankly, trying to keep track of time was giving Dalek Caan a headache.

Dalek Caan did not like headaches. He wondered why Davros had decided thumbs were bad, with all their potential problems, but heads, with things like headaches, were perfectly adequate.

Davros, thought Dalek Caan with a frisson of excitement and daring, was an idiot.

Although really, anyone who didn't like pickles was possibly an idiot.

Such a blasphemous thought would have sent a shiver down Dalek Caan's back, if that hadn't also been eradicated by the clearly idiotic, pickle-hating Davros.

Dalek Caan examined the refrigerator critically, and then moved his suction cup to seal itself onto the door. He reversed at a precise 45 degree angle, and the door slowly opened.

If Dalek Caan had possessed lips, he would have grinned. As it was, his eyestalk had a happy shine to it.

Maneuvering around the open refrigerator door was something of a challenge. This had been Dalek Caan's failing point on previous attempts, but this time, he was able to clear the door without any problems. Dalek Caan resisted the urge to cheer. Any expression of pleasure would be sure to result in the Potential Problem waking.

It was only now, looking at the open refrigerator, that Dalek Caan realized his mistake.

The pickles were located in the door, slightly higher than his suction cup could reach.

Levitation was noisy.

Dalek Caan's eyestalk drooped a little bit.

And then the refrigerator starting beeping.

Dalek Caan reversed, every instinct telling him to _get out get out now oh shit_.

"Wha?" said the Potential Problem, waking in the other room.

Dalek Caan sighed, reversed, and let his eyestalk fall completely. There was no hope of escape: the Potential Problem was awake, and he would be unable to maneuver the door closed before the Problem would enter the kitchen and discover his attempt to retrieve the pickles.

Sure enough, two minutes later (or perhaps an hour, it was hard to tell), Jack Harkness entered the kitchen.

"Pickles again?" he asked wryly.

"Yes," said Dalek Caan mournfully.

"You could just _ask_." Jack walked over and reached for the pickle jar.

"Daleks do not ask," said Dalek Caan, his eyestalk lifting a little with as much pride as he could muster. "Daleks _take_."

"Yeah, and Daleks also _exterminate_, but I don't see you doing that anytime soon." He offered Dalek Caan the pickle jar.

Dalek Caan rolled away, wishing he was rolling with a pickle.

Jack shrugged. "Suit yourself." He was about to replace the pickle jar in the refrigerator when there was a sudden movement at the door leading to the Barcalounger, followed by the familiar whir of a sonic screwdriver.

"What the—" yelled Jack, and he tackled the man standing in the doorway before the screwdriver could actually do any damage. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

Dalek Caan watched the pickle jar very carefully. There was a chance that in the process of tackling the new inferior humanoid, the Problem would have dropped the jar, freeing the pickles and allowing Dalek Caan to take as many as he wished. Unfortunately, the jar rolled unharmed across the kitchen floor to stop at Dalek Caan's casing.

"Do you know what that thing _is_?" shrieked the new man, as he and the Problem rolled in their effort to gain control of the screwdriver. "I just bloody saved your _life_, you ungrateful immortal _moron_."

Dalek Caan stretched his suction cup as far as it could go, but he couldn't quite get the sharp angle necessary for reaching the pickle jar.

"Dalek Caan!" yelled the Problem. "A little _help _here!"

Dalek Caan sighed at the pickle jar, and decided that if he couldn't access it for now, it didn't mean he wouldn't be able to retrieve it later.

A quick zap from his once formidable gunstick, and the two men yelped as the low-level current ran through their nervous systems. Dalek Caan sighed again. He'd always liked the part where their skeletons became visible. He missed that part.

He also missed pickles. He wasn't likely to regain the ability to zap humans into skeletons again. But perhaps if the new man was very nice, he'd open the pickle jar and retrieve one.

The new man certainly _seemed_ grateful enough. He lay on his back, patting his body to check that all pieces were present and accounted for. Chest and legs and hips and…oh. Dalek Caan, if he had been in the possession of cheeks, would have blushed to see where the new man patted himself now. For a moment, he was very glad that Davros had seen fit to discard cheeks.

("Off with their cheeks!")

"I'm not dead," gasped the man.

"Don't hold your breath," advised Jack, and he sat up, shaking his head. "Caan, can't you _aim_ any better than that?"

"No," said Dalek Caan mournfully. He didn't bother to add that his aim improved in direct correlation to how many pickles he was allowed to eat. He'd tried that trick before. The Problem, being Problematic, never believed him.

The man slowly got to his feet. Jack copied him, just a tad bit faster. The man didn't seem the least bit concerned. "That thing only aims to kill," he said, staring in amazement at Dalek Caan.

"He did once, yeah," said Jack cautiously. "Not anymore." He frowned. "Wait. What are you doing here?"

"You brought me," said the man absently, walking towards Dalek Caan as if he'd rather be walking in the other direction, but couldn't help himself. "A _Dalek_? He put a _Dalek_ in here?"

"He being…"

"Dudley Do-Right. The _Doctor_," said the man impatiently.

Dalek Caan's eyestalk swiveled up from the pickle jar. "The Doctor did not place me here," he reported in a dry monotone. "I arrived of my own free will, in an attempt to break into the Time War, and I am now caught in the Time Lock."

"That's about the size of it," confirmed Jack.

"_Into_?" repeated the man incredulously. "Why the bloody hell would anyone want _into_ the Time War?"

"I do not recall my reason," said Dalek Caan. He doubted it had anything to do with pickles. There were no pickles in the Time War.

"And you're the warden?" the man asked Jack with a snort. "Oh, that's rich. Well, let's see if we can't deconstruct this little passion play here." He pulled a roll of papers out from his back pocket. "Right, so, Jack Harkness – tell me about yourself. Does the name Amy Pond ring a bell?"

Jack blinked. "Is she pretty?"

"Oh, please," snorted the man. "You'd find a _rock_ gorgeous in the right light."

"If it was a gorgeous rock, sure," said Jack.

The man turned to the Dalek. "Does it answer questions, or does it shoot first?"

"I respond to inquiries," said Dalek Caan mournfully, still looking at the pickle jar.

"So how about you? Amy Pond?"

"No."

The man made a mark on his papers. "Any Sycorax nearby?"

Jack blinked. "No," he said.

Dalek Caan looked up. "Across the street."

The man looked startled. "Excuse me?"

The Problem glared at Dalek Caan. "Those aren't Sycorax, they're zombies."

"They look like Sycorax."

"They're _not_. They're zombies. They're perfectly harmless as long as you tell them to go to their rooms."

"They smell like Sycorax."

"How can you even _smell_, you don't have a _nose_?" yelled Jack, and Dalek Caan reversed a few inches.

The pickle jar rolled with him.

The man tsked. "Now, now, don't shout at the poor thing."

"Poor thing?" asked Jack incredulously. "You were cowering in terror over it three minutes ago and now you're calling it _poor thing_?"

"It didn't kill me," said the man with a shrug. "So, zombies, but no Sycorax. That's a new one. Do you have any ray guns anywhere?"

"My gunstalk was reconditioned," said Dalek Caan sadly.

"Noticed, and glad for it," said the man. "Hope I'm not thanking the Doctor for that favor."

"You are, actually," said Jack irritably. "Speaking of, hand it over."

The man looked up, a paragon of innocence. "Hand what over?"

"The sonic screwdriver," said Jack patiently, moving his fingers. "I know you have it, because I don't."

"It's not exactly yours," said the man. "I'm just going to return it to its rightful owner."

"Not bloody likely," said Jack.

"Like _you_ will," scoffed the man. "Clearly, you stole it first."

"I did _not_ steal—"

The man's mouth dropped open. "Wait – what?"

"I was given that sonic screwdriver fair and square—"

"HA!" shouted the man suddenly, and began scribbling something on the paper. "Of course. It's not ray guns at all, it's _theft_. Linda stole the Vortex Manipulator, you stole the screwdriver."

Jack blinked. "Who?"

The man waved his hand. "Linda. Don't worry about her."

Dalek Caan's eyestalk flashed. "Who?"

The man looked up, suddenly interested. "Linda?"

The eyestalk blinked again. The man began chortling to himself. "Oh, now that's very interesting." He began scribbling. "You just blundered in of your own free will, is that it? What are you going to do if you actually make it _into_ the Time War, anyway? Rescue Davros and maybe steal a bunch of planets in a misguided attempt to exterminate the galaxy in one fell swoop?"

"Okay, _seriously_, how did you get here?" asked Jack, giving Dalek Caan a nervous glance.

"Told you," said the man, still scribbling. "You brought me."

"I didn't bring you," said Jack. "I don't even _know_ you."

"Sure you do," said the man.

"He is the Time Lord known as the Master," said Dalek Caan, and the man grinned at him.

"Right in one, good show!" he said admiringly. "You get a biscuit."

"Oh," said Dalek Caan sadly, thinking of pickles.

"He knows his history," the Master told Jack Harkness.

"You can't be here," said Jack. "You don't even _exist_. All of the Time Lords were put in a Time Lock, your past was erased."

The Master sighed, exasperated. "You know, just because I'm stuck in a stupid _Time Lock_, doesn't mean I didn't exist. All the stuff that I did, it still happened. The Doctor didn't magically wipe it away. People still know the name _Saxon_, thankyouverymuch."

"What, the crackpot who tried to run for Prime Minister?" asked Jack.

The Master glared.

"I _almost_ voted for him."

"Thanks," said the Master, not meaning it. "I appreciate it."

Jack turned to Dalek Caan. "I'm not sure how you got in my head, but stop it."

Dalek Caan's eyestalk swiveled. "Me?"

"Him?" echoed the Master.

"Yes, you," the Problem said. "You're not meant to be telepathic, so get out of my dreams, now."

"I do not understand," said Dalek Caan.

"Neither do I," said the Master.

"I was dreaming, and _he_ was in it," said Jack, pointing at the Master. "And now he's _here_." He pointed down. "And there's a jar of pickles at your feet, and I'm pretty sure this is all connected."

"Pickles?" said the Master. He looked at his papers. "I don't think there's space for pickles. Unless…."

"I do not understand," repeated Dalek Caan.

"Oh, go read some existential poetry and come up with something new to say," said the Master, studying his papers.

"But if you would like me to recreate your dreams, I could do so," said Dalek Caan quickly. "For a price."

"Don't do it," said the Master absently. "He's going to ask for extermination or something."

"No, he's not," said Jack with a sigh.

"I would do this for a pickle."

The Master looked up. "Is that what they're calling genocide these days?"

"Dalek Caan has a thing for pickles," Jack explained to the Master.

The Master looked at the pickle jar resting by Dalek Caan's casing. "Pickles. You're telling me that the entire Dalek race was on a galaxy-wide quest for…pickles."

"No," said Jack. "Just him."

"I like pickles," said Dalek Caan sadly. "I am not allowed pickles."

The Master turned to Jack. "Well, why the hell not?"

Jack shook his head. "Trust me. He's a _Dalek_, he's not going to stop at eating just one pickle. And you don't want to live with a Dalek who has eaten an entire jar of pickles."

The Master thought about this. "No. But I don't mind if you do."

Three things happened then:

The Master pulled out the sonic screwdriver.

Jack fell to the floor, asleep.

The jar of pickles exploded, sending pickles flying in the air.

Dalek Caan was so busy collecting as many pickles as he could with his suction cup, it was some time before he realized that the Master had disappeared. And by then, he'd eaten the entire jar.

It was while eating the last pickle that Dalek Caan began thinking. The strange new man had made an interesting suggestion regarding Davros, who hadn't been all bad, really, despite not liking pickles. Davros would know how to get out of the Time Lock.

If Dalek Caan was able to escape the Time Lock, he might be able to find more pickles. Extermination was all well and good, but a plentiful supply of pickles was better.

* * *

Jack Harkness woke up on the floor of the detective agency with a headache.

"Well, that was _extremely_ helpful," said the Master gleefully, looking at his papers. He bent over the immortal man lying prone on the floor. "Took you long enough to wake up."

Jack blinked at him. "I just dreamed you."

"No, not really," said the Master, and then frowned. "What – dreamed? You were…_dreaming_?"

Jack winced and touched his temple. "Were there…pickles?"

"Shut up about the stupid pickles," snapped the Master. "You were _dreaming_? This is all _dreaming?_" He pinched himself quickly. "Okay, it's all _your_ dreaming."

"And zombies?"

"Or maybe you all _think_ you're dreaming," mused the Master. "Oh, he's _good_. I still hate him, but you have to admire the craftsmanship. Anyway, you've got one more story to spill, so I think it's time for another nap, don't you?" He aimed his laser screwdriver at Jack's head.

"No," said Jack weakly.

The Master stilled. "What's that?"

The sound of a key in a door clearly filled the office. Jack bucked under the Master's foot. "_Don't hurt her_," he gasped.

The Master grinned. "Amy?"

Jack blinked. "Lynda."

"Damn," said the Master. "Next time. Say goodnight, Gracie."

Before Jack could say another word, the Master fired his screwdriver, and disappeared while a flash of red light hit Jack squarely in the chest.

"Listen, Jack," began Lynda, as the door opened, "I've been—" The rest was nothing but a shriek, and Jack closed his eyes.

"Hi," he wheezed.

Lynda fell to her knees beside him. "You're hurt!"

"Give me a minute," said Jack, and opened his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't exactly want to do it this way."

"What are you talking about?" said Lynda, reaching for the telephone. "Shut up. I'm calling emergency."

"Don't bother," said Jack.

"Don't be stupid, and I told you to shut up," said Lynda, angrily sniffing. "You're not dying."

"Lynda – don't you remember what I told you?"

Lynda froze. "But—"

Jack closed his eyes, and died.

When he opened them again a few minutes later, Lynda was sitting cross-legged next to him, the phone in her lap, her eyes focused squarely on him.

Jack coughed once.

"Hi," Lynda managed to choke out.

"Told you so," said Jack.

* * *

The Master didn't say anything to the Time Lords, still playing Apples to Apples. He just grinned at them.

"You call that a poker face?" asked Romana.

"Oh, I'm liking my hand very much," replied the Master. "Say, any of you lot seen Davros around? I just met someone who's looking for him."

The Time Lords looked at each other. "Davros isn't in the Time Lock," said one finally.

The Master snorted. "Don't be stupid. He was in the Time _War_, of course he's in the Time _Lock_."

"No, he isn't," said Romana. "Dalek Caan came in and retrieved him a few years ago."

The Master's mouth dropped open before he could catch it. He quickly closed his mouth and raised an eyebrow, hoping no one had noticed. "He really did that? Huh. Didn't think the pepper pot would take me seriously."

Silence at the card table.

"_You told him to?_" Romana's voice was somewhere between an incredulous shriek and a moan of horror.

"Well, since when have Daleks been so susceptible to the Power of Time Lord Suggestion?" snapped the Master. "Anyway, last I checked, Earth was still around, so I wouldn't get all worked up about it." He looked down at K-9. "Don't suppose you have a thing for pickles, do you?"

"I am unable to process any type of food product, Master."

"Pickles?" asked Romana, still boggled.

"Thought not," said the Master, and made a mark on his papers. "I'm feeling a bit peckish, though, what do you suppose there is to eat around here?"

The Master left the table, with K-9 rolling behind. Romana watched them go, and chewed her lip, wondering what the Master was planning.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_fourteen dot jpg_


	15. Chapter 15

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Sally Sparrow, Rose Tyler, and Ten2.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Horizontal O to Vertical G**

The Master frowned at K-9.

"You've outlived your usefulness," he told the little tin dog.

"I apologize, Master," said K-9.

"No chance I can disintegrate you without destroying my chances of escaping the Time Lock, are there?"

"Negative, Master. Should any of the pieces be eliminated from the playing field, you will be unable to break the code."

The Master frowned at his notes. "I hate him."

"I understand, Master."

"No, I _really_ hate him," said the Master longingly. "You can't possibly understand how much I absolutely despise him. He could have just tossed us in the Time Lock, but _nooooo_, he had to actually make us think there was a way to get out. He's taunting us, K-9."

"Affirmative, Master."

"First thing I'm going to do," said the Master dreamily. "When I get out, first thing I'm going to do is track him down, the bastard, and kick him. Repeatedly. I might video it, so that I can watch it later when I'm feeling down. That would cheer me up. Think I should pop back to that Star Wars story and nick R2-D2? He had a record function, didn't he?"

"Affirmative, Master."

The Master looked at his notes again. "Don't suppose you're going to tell me if I've got _any_ of these right."

"Affirmative, Master."

The Master paused. "Affirmative, you're going to tell me, or affirmative, I have something correct."

"You have successfully entered the items in Diagonal Right. Allowing for your own personal commentary."

The Master looked at the entries in question. A slow smile spread across his face. Had there been anyone to see it, other than a small tin dog, they would have been shaking in their shoes.

"Really," he said, very satisfied. "Well. That's very good to hear. Thank you, K-9."

"You are welcome, Master," said the little tin dog.

Only the Master wasn't there to hear it.

* * *

"Good heavens," said Randolph Spencer-Churchill, staring at the space where the strange artist wearing the even stranger clothing had stood only moments before. "Where did the man go?"

"I expect he'll return," said Sally dryly. She sat down on the nearest couch, and smoothed out her skirts. It was odd, but she couldn't help but feel enormously pleased with herself.

"What _was_ he carrying on about?"

"Oh," said Sally airily. "Artistic things. I wouldn't worry about them. Is your gentleman still in the library, Randolph?"

"Oh," said Randolph, as if he only just remembered his guest. "Yes. Yes, I should really go – it's only very strange, isn't it, I blinked and—" Randolph shook his head. "Never mind, darling. Is it all right if I—"

Sally watched as poor, flustered Randolph searched for the words he wanted to say. Normally he was very well spoken, and didn't hesitate about anything. She wondered if it was the Master's presence, or perhaps the gentleman in the back room, that had him so discombobulated.

Or maybe, the small voice in the back of her mind said, it was _her_. Seeing as she wasn't meant to be there, marrying him in the first place. And if she did….would the world end in flames? Or right itself by killing her? Sally might have grown fond of Randolph, but all the same, it wasn't something she wanted to find out.

"I'm fine," said Sally. "I shall let out a holler if anyone so much as enters the room."

Randolph chuckled. "That's all right, my dear. I'll just be around the corner."

The moment Randolph left the room, Sally slumped on the couch, which was quite a feat, considering how uncomfortable it was. She closed her eyes, and would have considered her options, except she didn't really _have_ any.

"Bit of a fop, isn't he?" asked a familiar voice next to her. Sally opened her eyes and looked at the Master, crouched behind the sofa, resting his head on the wooden frame.

"I think you need to reexamine the definition of 'fop'," said Sally. "He's very important and influential."

"Not as much as his son would be," said the Master casually, and Sally winced. "Well, to work. I have some questions for you."

The Master vaulted easily over the back of the sofa, and pulled out the familiar stack of papers. Sally sat up.

"Did it work? Did you make friends—"

"I don't make friends," said the Master shortly. "What do you dream about?"

The question wasn't what Sally was expecting. "Dream?"

"Yes, dream," said the Master impatiently. "You know, close your eyes, count sheep or whatever, run little plays in your head in which you're Queen of England."

"I know what dreams are!"

The Master shook his papers. "You're on my card, Sally. So's Jack Harkness."

"I told you, I don't—"

"He dreams. And his dreams match the other lines of the card."

Sally grabbed the papers from the Master and studied them. "You're sure?"

The Master grabbed the papers back. "It's a _theory_. He wasn't exactly willing to share."

Sally snorted. "Oh, and I am?"

"More so than anyone else," said the Master.

"Linda's in more of a position to tell you about dreams," Sally pointed out.

"And yet, here I sit," said the Master, throwing his arms wide. He leaned back. "So, Sally – tell me about your dreams. I don't suppose you're dreaming about Star Wars."

"I hated that movie."

"Not answering the question," sang the Master.

"_No_."

The Master frowned, and looked at his notes. "Bugger. Don't suppose you're robbing a bank in these dreams of yours?"

"I don't really remember," said Sally, a bit cross. "The only thing I ever really remember about the dreams when I wake up is that it always takes me a minute to remember that they're _dreams_. They're so…real. It's like when I'm dreaming, I'm actually living, and the bits now – they're the dream."

"Hmm," said the Master. "Very clever of him. Well, only one thing to do."

The Master stood up and pulled out the little gold pen from his pocket. Sally watched, curious.

"Sorry about this," said the Master, and then shrugged. "Well, not really."

Sally let out a cry of surprise as the waves hit her, and slumped over on the sofa, asleep.

And didn't know anything after that.

* * *

Rose Tyler had been waiting an _extremely_ long time for this moment. She was determined to savor it.

"Don't move a muscle," she warned her companion, and he let out a squeak of protest.

"Rose, if you don't—"

"Just give me a moment," she said, and closed her eyes. "Oh, this is _good_."

"Thanks." He would have sounded amused if he hadn't sounded so strained.

"I mean, I was _hoping_, but I didn't want to say anything. You know? I mean, what if it hadn't been all that? And I'd talked it all up, and then it fell flat – it'll just be a let-down we'd have to face in the morning. But this…."

"No, really, you can stop now!" He sounded somewhat annoyed now, and Rose opened her eyes.

"It really is beautiful," Rose told him honestly, and rested her hand on the polished paneling.

"It's not very big," said the Doctor, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Still bigger on the inside," said Rose, and she walked around the small space – no larger than a medium-sized kitchen, really – trailing her fingers along the wood. "Besides, there's only the three of us. It doesn't _need_ to be big."

"She'll grow," said the Doctor hopefully. "Give her a few more years, we'll have an entire back room. In a decade, a dozen!"

Rose laughed, and wrapped her arms around his neck for a hug. "Three years ago, all this was just a bit of coral that could fit in your pocket. Don't apologize for anything!"

The squeeze he gave her in return nearly cracked her ribs, but Rose didn't mind. She'd long since vowed never to complain about a single hug ever again, no matter how badly she needed oxygen.

"So, Rose Tyler," he said, rolling the words in his mouth as if they were peppermints, "where to first?"

"You never did take me to Barcelona," Rose teased.

"Oh, you don't want to go to Barcelona?" he exclaimed. "Thing I never told you about dogs with no noses – they don't notice the smell. But we would!"

Rose laughed. "We need to wait for Sally, anyway. You promised her, remember."

"Funny old world, this world of Pete's," said the Doctor, and he fell to his knees to inspect something under the console.

"Yours, too, now," chided Rose.

"No Sarah Jane, no Martha Jones, no Donna Noble – and her the most important woman in the other universe!"

"Just as well – imagine two of your gobs here," said Rose, and dodged the wiring flying toward her head.

"But there's a Sally Sparrow. Imagine that. Sally Sparrow, still photographing and wandering about falling-down houses."

"And still a Doctor to warn her about the Weeping Angels," said Rose. She sat down next to the Doctor. "That's a thought, we could go back and find her friend in 1920-something."

"Can't, her timeline's—"

"Set," Rose said with him. "I know." She stretched out her legs and listened to the Doctor tinkering for a moment. "I saw you, you know."

"Hmm?"

"Him, I mean. When I was using the Dimension Cannon, I turned up in the Powell Estate one day, and saw him from a distance in the snow. Real snow."

The Doctor's frown was audible in the way he banged at the pipes under the console. "I don't remember ever being at the Estate in real snow."

"I don't think you were," said Rose. "I…I think it was a later him. You know, him after he sent us here. I think he was saying goodbye. But I phased back before I had a chance to say anything to him."

The Doctor slid out from under the console. "Just as well you didn't, if it was after Davros for him." He frowned. "What makes you think…."

"Because I didn't remember it happening at the time," said Rose.

"I'm lost," said the Doctor. "And that doesn't happen often."

Rose smiled. "It was New Year's Eve, the year we met. Mum had just left for a party – no idea which – and I was going to meet Shireen at the pub, and there was this man in the shadows. I thought he was drunk, he didn't know what year it was. And I told him, and he said it'd be a very good year for me." Rose laughed. "It was."

"Me, too," said the Doctor, quiet. "He said it to you?"

"The me in 2005. God, my hair was squashed flat by that hat."

"I like your hair flat," said the Doctor honestly, and Rose grinned at him. "Why do you think he was saying goodbye?"

"He wasn't well," said Rose quietly. "I didn't see it originally – I mean, the younger me didn't, but I didn't know that face in 2005. I know it now. He was sick. I think he was…." Rose closed her eyes and let her head rest against the console. "Would you know if…."

"I don't know. Maybe. I'd like to think so."

Rose hesitated. "Have you?"

"No."

Rose opened her eyes, and then smiled with relief, as if she'd half expected a different man to be sitting beside her. "Sally's running late."

"Rose—" He caught her hand as she tried to stand up. "Why did you tell me this?"

Rose shrugged. "Dunno. But he didn't mess up the timelines by coming to see me. Maybe we wouldn't mess up the timelines by going to see Sally's friend."

There was a scratching at the door, which slowly opened. "Hello?"

Rose scrambled to her feet. "Sally! I was beginning to worry."

"Sally Sparrow!" shouted the Doctor. "First person to visit us in our new ship – what took you so long?"

"Fell asleep," apologized Sally. "Stupid of me, I know, but…um. There's a bit of a problem."

The Doctor frowned. "Don't tell me we're needed at headquarters…."

"No, no," Sally assured him. "It's a bit trickier than that. It's…well….I'm not sure how…."

"Out with it," said the Doctor firmly.

Sally sighed, and threw open the door the rest of the way.

"Hello," said the Master cheerfully, waving.

The Doctor scrambled to his feet. "What the—"

The Master stepped inside. "Oh, this is _lovely_, it really is. You did all this from scratch? Very impressive craftsmanship, not to mention a bit of temporal tweaking. Not your usual style, you so like to do things by the book."

"But you're _dead_," exclaimed the Doctor.

"And _you're_ not a Time Lord," countered the Master. "So I think we're even. What are you, anyway?" He sniffed in the Doctor's direction. "Some human half-breed?"

"Oi!" said Rose, and the Master turned to look at her. "Nothing wrong with being human!"

"Blonde," he said dismissively. "_Another_ blonde. What is it with you and blondes, anyway?"

"OI!" shouted Rose and Sally together.

"All right, fake blonde," amended the Master, waving his hand at Rose.

"I'm a clone," said the Doctor. "Of him. First of my kind. Well, only. That I know of, anyway. It's a long story, but I'm him, only human. That's all you need to know."

"Don't call yourself a _clone_," snapped Rose.

"It's true," said the Doctor. "I'm not ashamed of it."

"But you're _human_," groaned the Master. "I didn't want the _human_ you, I wanted the _useful_ you."

"Oi!" shouted both the Doctor and Rose.

"You're not the clone I'm looking for," said the Master, and then froze. "Oh, you are _kidding_ me." He pulled out a roll of paper from his back pocket, and began erasing furiously. "I hate him."

"Who is this guy?" Rose asked the Doctor.

"He's the Master," said the Doctor, still glaring at the intruder. "Another Time Lord. A not terribly nice one, I might add."

"The proper term is _evil_," said the Master, still scribbling on his papers.

"Megalomaniac would be a better description."

"But so much harder to spell." The Master looked up. "Just remember, I was human first, before you went and made it the popular thing to do. You know what bothered me most about being human? The hair. All that time spent making it look perfect, and two months later, you had to cut it again. Must be driving you completely spare."

Rose stifled a giggle. The Doctor crossed his arms.

"Get off my TARDIS."

"Oh, I will. I have a few questions first," said the Master. "Clones, that's you, obviously. Sally here, she's represented, of course. This one—" He focused his eyes on Rose. "She's a mystery."

"Rose, you don't have to answer anything he asks you," said the Doctor quickly.

"Rose! Very pretty name," said the Master. "Let's see. Had any dreams about the Sycorax lately, Rose?"

"No," said Rose, glancing at the Doctor.

The Master made a note on his papers. "Too bad. You, the Sycorax, and fantasies? Quite a story there waiting to be told." His grin was more of a leer, and the Doctor took a quick step forward, brow furrowing.

"Leave her alone."

"Really?" said the Master, now surprised, and then shrugged. "I thought you were more into the redheads myself, but I suppose clones are inexact copies at best."

Rose put her hand on the Doctor's arm. "Doctor—"

"You know the best part about being human, Master?" he growled. "I have no compunction against violence."

"Didn't in the end as a Time Lord, either," retorted the Master, but the startled look on the Doctor's face stopped him from going further. "Oh. You…you don't _know_."

"Know what?" asked the Doctor, in a tone saying he didn't really want an answer.

"You _don't_," said the Master, barely breathing. "Do you even know where you are?"

"Different universe, other side of the Void," said the Doctor. "How can you not – unless – you didn't cross the Void…."

The Master shook his head. "Time Lock. I'm caught in Gallifrey's Time Lock."

The shock leached out of the Doctor, but Rose didn't let go of his arm. "When I put you on the burial pyre…"

"No, this was after that," said the Master. "When I killed Rasillon and sent the rest back into it, when they tried to escape."

The Doctor's mouth dropped open, and then he closed it with a snap. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," said the Master. "Bloody arse deserved it. You know he's the wanker who put the drums in my head, all those years ago? It was his way of getting out of the Time Lock. _This_ Time Lock."

"I'm not in the Time Lock," said the Doctor.

"No, not precisely. You're in the Key." The Master waved his papers. "_These_. I'm trying to get out, thank you. This is my bloody ticket back to Reality."

"I can't let you do that!"

The Master reached into his pocket, pulled out his laser screwdriver, and aimed it at the Doctor. "Do you really want to test me, Cloney Boy?"

The Doctor paused.

"Oooo! Remember this, don't you?" He waggled the screwdriver between his fingers. "I'm very happy to bring Star Wars into this storyline, too, Yoda, so I'd suggest letting me finish up with your girlfriend here, and then you can all get back to playing Happy Families, yes? Because I wouldn't be so sure that it's so easy for a Human Clone to get back to normal as it was for the Time Lord edition."

The Doctor made a strangled cry, but didn't move.

"Right, so," said the Master, and glanced at his papers. "Blondie—"

"_Rose_."

"You've been dreaming about a blonde girl named Linda, haven't you?"

Rose's eyes widened. "How did you—"

"Figured as much, if you weren't dreaming about being a Sycorax love slave. Makes sense that you're not on that line, though, considering Overprotective Cloney Boy here. I suppose Time Lord Almighty was in love with you, too?"

Rose swallowed. "He never said it."

"He wouldn't," snorted the Master. "Right proper little nincompoop, him. You're better off with Cloney Boy."

Rose slipped her hand down the Doctor's arm to grab his hand and hold it tightly. "I know."

"Hmm," said the Master thoughtfully. "Think you're the first girl he's loved?"

"She's the first person I've loved as a human," said the Doctor quietly. "And the only. That's all that matters."

"First person," snorted the Master, frowned, and scribbled something else down on his charts. "Well, works as well as anything else. One more question. Anyone steal anything around here?"

The TARDIS was so silent, he could have heard a pin drop. If there had been a loose pin, anyway.

"Well?" prompted the Master. "I'm not the Intergalactic Time Lock Police, and I haven't seen a Judoon in centuries. Out with it."

Sally pointed to the hard-wood floor.

"Sally!" moaned the Doctor.

"The floor?" the Master asked Rose.

"From my mother's dining room," Rose explained. "She never goes in there, and wood holds up better in the Vortex."

"Did you have to _admit_ it?" the Doctor yelled at Sally.

"He asked!" Sally yelled. "You said a little theft wouldn't be such a bad thing, you'd be sure to go back when you were done and replace it! 'A _time_ machine, Sally,' that's what you told me!"

"Has she noticed?" the Master asked Rose.

"Not yet," said Rose. "But we've been steering clear of the dining room, because none of us know when he's actually going to show up to replace it and we don't want to create a _pair-a-dox_."

The Master stared at her. Rose's poker face was perfect.

"I see why he picked you," the Master said finally.

"Thanks," said Rose.

"Are you done yet?" asked the Doctor, barely masking his annoyance.

"Probably," said the Master. He knocked against the time rotor. "Does this thing really work?"

"Not with you in it," said the Doctor heatedly. "I don't care if this is your Reality or not – it's _mine_, and I'm not going to let you wreak havoc in it."

"There was a time you wanted me around always," the Master said. "Screamed as I lay dying in your arms, you did."

"Yeah, well," said the Doctor. "Shove off."

The Master looked surprised. "If that's what turning human has done to your temper, I'll be going then. I don't suppose…"

His fingers wriggled against the laser screwdriver, motioning toward Rose, and the Doctor stepped in front of her.

"NOW."

"Never mind," the Master said to Rose. "I'll find you another way. It's been lovely, all, pleasant dreams."

A blink, and he was gone. Sally slumped against the door, fast asleep.

The Doctor and Rose looked at each other.

"Who was he?" Rose asked again.

"Old school chum," said the Doctor tersely.

"Nice choice in mates you got there," said Rose.

"I got better at it," said the Doctor, and together, they went to wake up Sally.

* * *

Sally Sparrow woke up on the divan in Sir Randolph Spencer-Churchill's sitting room with a headache.

"Ow," she said, and then winced, because her voice was uncommonly loud.

"Sorry about that," said a voice on the other end of the room, not sounding terribly sorry. "I did put a pillow under your head," it added, almost helpfully.

"Aren't you meant to be evil?" asked Sally, putting her hand over her eyes.

"When did I say that?"

Sally frowned. "I think I dreamed it."

"It's true, anyway."

Sally gingerly sat up, careful not to shake her head too much. "That you're evil? I don't believe it."

"I attacked you," the Master pointed out.

"You put me to sleep and put a pillow under my head," Sally corrected him.

"It gave you a headache," said the Master. "And I _knew_ it would give you a headache."

"I'll drink some water," said Sally, unconcerned. "Did you get what you needed?"

The Master unrolled his papers. "I think so. I still have some squares to fill in, but I don't think you can help anymore."

"Oh." Sally picked at her skirt. "What happens when…"

"I break out?"

Sally nodded.

The Master shrugged. "No idea. It'll destroy the Key, I suppose. You should go right back to where you started."

"But…Randolph?"

"Fathers a prime minister. He'll be fine."

Sally nodded, wishing she could be as certain. "So." She stood up and held out her hand. "It's been a pleasure. Even with the headache."

The Master stared at her hand, startled. "I – ah – "

Sally sighed. "You _shake_ it. To show good intentions."

"I know that! Just…didn't expect you to offer."

"Well, I am," said Sally. "And I want to wish you luck. If you escape, so do I. And I don't particularly want to bring the end of civilization, or end up dead myself."

"No," said the Master, half agreeing. He held out his hand, still trying to make up his mind, but Sally took that as invitation and grasped it for a quick shake.

"Better go," Sally advised him. "Before Randolph comes in wanting to know why you haven't started painting yet."

The Master didn't say anything. Before Sally was even finished speaking, he was gone.

"No need to stand on ceremony," said Sally dryly.

"Is there to be a ceremony?" asked a cheerful voice from the doorway, and Sally turned to see Randolph and his guest entering the room. The man had a lanky sort of walk, and was looking around as though he'd never before been in a room with four walls in his entire life. Sally thought he looked vaguely familiar but she couldn't quite place where she'd seen him.

"A wedding ceremony," said Sally. "As I'm sure you're aware, Mr.—"

"Is the artist gone again?" asked Randolph with no small amount of annoyance. "One wonders if he'll ever finish, if he never starts."

"I suspect he's started," said the visitor cheerfully. He sat with a thump down on one of the sofas and grinned up at Sally as he reached into a paper bag for a peanut. She frowned; there was something just a bit _off_ about him. "Question is: _will_ he finish? What do you think, Sally?"

"Have we met?" asked Sally.

"Will do," said the man. "I'm the Doctor. Peanut?"

* * *

The Master watched the game with a thoughtful expression.

"You could join in, you know," said Romana after a few minutes.

"No," said the Master.

"Or you could stand there and stare, that's quite all right, too," Romana continued.

"Thought I would, thanks," said the Master. "I'm evil, right?"

The Time Lords began to titter.

"Master," said Romana, somewhat tiredly, "we're playing Apples to Apples. In this game, you have to match the adjective to the noun. On the last hand, the adjective was 'evil'. The noun every one of us chose, without one word of deliberation or collusion, was 'Master'."

"That's good," said the Master, but he didn't sound convinced.

"I had Dalek in my hand at the time, too," added Romana.

"Oh," said the Master, brightening a little. "Well then."

And he kicked Romana's chair on the way out. Romana couldn't help but smile.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_fifteen dot jpg_


	16. Chapter 16

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Malcolm Taylor and Erisa Magambo.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Horizontal G**

Magambo was not happy. Malcolm would have worried more, but he couldn't remember ever seeing Magambo happy in the first place, so he chose to worry about something else instead, namely the curious temperature fluctuation in his laboratory.

"I should be getting back," he said, not that anyone paid him the least bit of attention. The soldiers surrounding the excavation site still wore their sterile suits, although Magambo had taken her own mask off. Malcolm wasn't sure if she considered him to be the canary down the mine shaft, or if she simply didn't care for sterile protocol. He couldn't see Magambo disregarding protocol. He could very easily see her dismissing him as a canary. He felt about as useful. Never mind that scientist slumped over in the corner, there's a gas leak and we should all vacate immediately.

"There's work waiting for me in my laboratory," Malcolm continued to explain, and everyone continued to ignore him.

"Mr. Taylor," said Magambo, "as you're here, you can give us an initial readout of the item."

"Metal," said Malcolm. "That's my initial readout. I _really_ should get back—"

Magambo's expression did not change. "Metal? That's all you can give me? I expect more from U.N.I.T.'s scientific advisor."

"I don't have any of my instruments—"

"Mr. Taylor, if you cannot be of use to me in the field, perhaps there is another scientist who can be," said Magambo tersely.

Malcolm was half tempted to recommend Emery, and then he remembered the way the secretary's – Pam's – eyes had grown when she talked about his going into the field. She hadn't been especially pretty, but she had nice eyes, Malcolm supposed. Oh, Mr. Taylor, the Captain has requested your presence in the field for a fourth time this week – you must be very terribly important and a valued employee of U.N.I.T., and is that a new tie you're wearing today, sir?

Without quite knowing why, Malcolm knelt down next to the hole in the ground.

"Metal, although it appears newer than the century it's been buried, which makes me question its composition. I wouldn't be able to give you an exact readout without having run some initial tests, on equipment _in my laboratory_, but I would think that if it were not for the age which you have given it, that there would be some kind of anti-oxidation element to the structure."

"If not for the age?" questioned Magambo.

"Anti-oxidation metals weren't common in Victorian England," said Malcolm. He leaned over to press his palm to the surface. "Not smooth – clearly, it was hammered into shape originally."

"Or the dents are the pressure from being buried for a century," said Magambo.

"No," said Malcolm, barely aware that he was disagreeing with Magambo. "The slab would have crushed the casing, not dented it. No, this is the original metalwork we're seeing here, not something a hundred years of sitting under a slab have done, and that's the curious bit, how sitting under a slab for a hundred years wouldn't have damaged the casing."

"Casing?" repeated Magambo.

"The curvature," said Malcolm, running his hands over the metal. "Flat in the center, curving at the edges. You've got yourself a container here, the only question is – what's inside?"

Magambo nodded briskly. "Please step aside, Mr. Taylor. If we're to finish our dig, we may inadvertently open the container, and I cannot say what might come out."

"Oh," said Malcolm, quickly getting to his feet. All the bravado drained away, and he became instantly aware of exactly how large the sky was over his head, and how the snow was beginning to fall again. "Ah – yes – I should get back to—"

"Your laboratory," said Magambo. "You said there was something—"

"Nothing," said Malcolm quickly. Where there had been bravery was now a quivering realization that he was_ in the field_, and the soldiers were about to open an extremely sensitive and dangerous casing with his person entirely too close for comfort. "A joke. Ha-ha. I'll prepare to receive the casing. Make some space."

"Don't move, Mr. Taylor," ordered Magambo, and Malcolm froze, one leg in the air. "You'll wait until the excavation has been completed, and when I say, you will accompany the casing back to your laboratory. Understood?"

"Yes," squeaked Malcolm.

The excavation didn't take very much longer. Malcolm huddled near one of the nearby trucks, holding a cup of tea someone had handed him. Every so often, someone would go rushing by, a brisk jog in combat boots, and Malcolm tried to sit up and look important, only to slump back down the moment they had passed.

He was not overly fond of field work, as of yet. It was cold and apart from the very real chance that something would explode, rendering him a steaming pile of ash (and even then, Malcolm was sure his mother would question the ash about its plans to marry and move into a nice house somewhere), he was, quite frankly, bored. Even the thrill of not knowing what was going on wasn't enough to entice him to look interested. The only good thing, so far, was that he was allowed to sit and think about the strange cold shape of air in the laboratory, what it might mean, how it might have arrived, and – worse – if it was changing shape or size the longer he was gone.

"Mr. Taylor!" Magambo's voice carried through the snow. Malcolm had no doubt that Magambo's voice could carry through mountains, if she deemed it necessary. Malcolm, still clutching his tea, trotted back over to the excavation, and when he saw what had been unearthed, his mouth dropped open.

"Oh my," he said, and stared at the torso of a robot, gleaming faintly in the snow.

* * *

There were other spare bits of robot still buried beneath the concrete, according to the excavation crew who of course knew about these things, but Magambo didn't hold much hope for freeing the objects of their concrete prisons that day. "Half my troops in Cornwall, collecting bits of Sycorax ship – bloody fools, Torchwood, don't know what they were thinking, certainly can't be bothered to clear their own mess. It'll take a week to clear this site. _Andrews_! I need transport here, on the double. Mr. Taylor, why are you still here?"

Malcolm stuttered a reply, but Magambo had already waved him away, out of her sight and no longer her concern. Andrews, a short, squabby-looking man who looked so accustomed to being shouted at by Magambo that he had started to respond only to a raised voice, jerked his head at Malcolm and towards the transport, and Malcolm scrambled aboard, barely keeping his tea from spilling out over his trousers.

"I say, what do you think of this snow, mate?" asked the driver cheerfully. "Not a bit cold."

"Ash," mumbled Malcolm, still lost in thought about his laboratory, only now it was mixed up with the strange robotic torso in the back of the transport. Something there….there was something there. If only Malcolm could think of it… "It's not snow, it's ash. Metallic on the tongue."

"Oh," said the driver, wonderingly. "Wondered why it tasted hot. Think it's from that ship yesterday?"

"Undoubtedly," said Malcolm, not one bit interested. Why was he suddenly so distracted that he couldn't fix his mind on the singular problem of the cold spot in his laboratory? Or the singular problem of the torso in the back of the transport?

Or was it…that they were related? And _how_?

"Great stuff," continued the driver, delightedly. "Things I've learned since joining up. You should read the back files. They'd make for great Saturday night telly, if anyone believed them. And even if they didn't!"

Malcolm perked up. "Back files?"

The driver barked a laugh. "What, you never went into the library? Every incident on every alien U.N.I.T.'s ever dealt with is in there. Plus a few who worked for us. Sometimes during my lunch I go and sit and read one for fun. Really comes in handy in the field, gives you that edge knowing what's possible."

"Back files," mused Malcolm, and for the next ten minutes, until the transport truck started on the underground passageway to Headquarters, ducking under a bit of the old London Wall, he breathed in the scent of ignorance, and relished every note.

* * *

It took him exactly twenty-three minutes to discover the file.

It took him exactly ten minutes to read it.

It took him 90 seconds to realize what it meant.

It took him an unaccountably long three minutes and 42 seconds to race back to his laboratory, clutching the photograph nicked from the file (and dodging the extremely angry and possessive librarian).

It didn't matter. By the time he'd returned to his laboratory, the damage was done.

The torso of the Cyberman had been left on his laboratory table – directly in the center of the strange cold spot. It had obviously been sitting there for quite some time, long enough for a thin layer of frost to accumulate on its metallic surface – which only made the lettering etched on the underside of the torso stand out all the more.

_Danger. Do not crack the code. Love, Lynda and Caan._

Malcolm swallowed. He was still sitting on the stool near the doorway, staring at the torso, when Magambo came in.

"What code?" she said, examining the torso. Malcolm hadn't even realized she was there, and he quickly jumped off the stool.

"I wouldn't – ah – touch it," he said, cautious. "I don't know what code. It might be it only needs a genetic marker."

"Blood type," said Magambo with a sage nod, and Malcolm wondered if she'd been one of those on the rooftop the day before. "Who are Lynda and Caan?"

"They weren't mentioned in the files," said Malcolm. "At least, I can't find mention of a Lynda with that spelling. I've done some preliminary research, and there is a Caan – but not in reference to the Victorian invasion of the Cybermen, so I'm not sure—"

"A Cyberman?" echoed Magambo, looking askance at the thing on the table. "Is that what it is?"

"I think so, yes."

"And this Lynda and Caan are associated with them?"

"I don't think so," said Malcolm. "They aren't mentioned in the Cyberman files, and where Caan is mentioned, there are no Cybermen. Clearly – they had some sort of contact, if they left the message. And what's more—" He paused. "I think the message was intended for me."

Magambo flashed him an irritated look. "You?"

Malcolm grabbed the digital spacial thermometer from the counter, and held it up to Magambo. "Ambient room temperature, twenty-two degrees Celsius."

He moved to the table, and held the thermometer over it. "Ambient room temperature over the table: negative ten degrees Celsius."

Magambo blinked, and her lips grew thinner.

"I don't think this is a coincidence, nor is the cold being generated by the torso itself," continued Malcolm, dashing to his computer to type frantically. "Before I went to the site, I noticed the change in temperature. And here's the odd thing: it's of a very specific shape over the table, unrelated to the ventilation system or any other air flow. The shape is exactly one inch larger than the dimensions of the Cyberman torso. Meaning that had the torso been set anywhere else: the message would never have appeared."

"But when brought to you, the message became visible," said Magambo, nodding. "What created the air pocket?"

"That's why I came to you, because you had said you were bringing me something in the morning. All I found was the temperature fluxuation. But there's something else. Do you see anything else – anything else at all on the table?"

Magambo squinted, scanning the table's surface. "No," she said finally. "Should I?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Another one of the scientists came in this morning and claimed to see something. I wasn't able to determine what before he left again." Malcolm paused. "There's something else."

"Why am I not surprised," said Magambo, deadpan. Malcolm typed a few more keys into the computer, and then spun the screen so that Magambo could see. She leaned over to give the screen a closer look.

"The Victorian Invasion of the Cyberman took place in 1851. Well before either U.N.I.T. or Torchwood were founded, and so details about the event are flimsy at best, and rumors at worst. But the one story that remains consistent is of a man, a single man, who managed to stop the Invasion and destroy the robot leader—"

Magambo straightened and stared Malcolm in the eye. "The Doctor."

"Who?" asked Malcolm.

"That's the Doctor," said Magambo coolly. "You are acquainted with our library, it seems. Look him up."

She turned on her heel and headed straight for the door. Malcolm took a step as if to follow her, but stalled. "I –ah – but—"

Magambo barely turned around. "If the Doctor was associated with this Cyberman, it stands to reason he may have been associated with Lynda and Caan. He has a long history with U.N.I.T., Mr. Taylor, including within your own position. I would suggest that it may be that this message is either from or intended for him, and not you at all."

Malcolm swallowed, and wondered if this was how regular folk felt: insignificant and about the size of a flea. Do you mean to say that there is information which you do not possess? Off with you, and be quick about it.

"The Doctor. Yes, of course," stammered Malcolm. "I'll look him up. Immediately."

"It would be best," said Magambo, and glanced at the torso again. "I _had_ brought this here because you were the best, Mr. Taylor."

The _were_ hung heavily around Malcolm's ears. But before he could defend himself, or stammer something about how he would not disappoint, Magambo was gone.

* * *

_Don't break the code_.

Malcolm Taylor spent his lunch hour and most of the afternoon in the library, reading every file the librarian brought him. Most were incredibly dusty, some were smeared with jam, and not a single one was complete. Each one was missing a vital piece of information: namely, the first-hand report from one of the key players, who went only by the title "Doctor".

Malcolm was hooked. It was better than any scientific journal he'd ever had the pleasure of reading in the dead of night, under his covers with a torch for light, while his mother railed about ruining his eyesight.

By the time he'd finished the last report, the sun had set and the librarians were giving him cursory looks as they turned off the desk lamps, clearly anxious for him to be gone so that they could go home themselves, to serve beans on toast for tea to recalcitrant husbands and packs of grubby, sugar-sweetened children, he had no doubt.

Malcolm had no such persons waiting for him. He gathered the files in his arms, and left the library, determined to ignore any librarian who tried to stop him. None of them did.

He met Martin Emery, once again tapping his umbrella on the ground as he headed out into the night. "G'night, Malcolm," said Emery cheerfully. "Fancy a pint before home?"

"No, ta, busy," said Malcolm, trying not to drop the slippery files. "Work."

"Ah, yes, the robot," said Emery with a nod. "Don't stay too late, Malcolm – those things come alive if you stare at them too long. Nasty bit of business, them, you wouldn't want to meet them down a dark alley. So I've heard," he added lamely, and then continued on his way, tap tap tap.

"Right, no, of course," said Malcolm, trying to catch a slipping file, only to drop three more from under his arm. One of the files slid across the laminated floor, and came to a stop under Emery's umbrella point.

Emery leaned over to look at it. "Oh, this was a good one," he said approvingly.

"You've read them?" asked Malcolm.

"Everyone's read them," said Emery with a wave of his hand. "Try the appendix, you'll find a puzzle there that's had everyone hopping for decades. Maybe you'll be the first person to break the code."

Tap-tap-tap went Emery's umbrella, echoing down the hall.

"Code?" repeated Malcolm. He scrambled to his feet, dropping half the files he's only just picked up. "Code?" he shouted louder, and Emery turned around, a half smile on his face.

"They say," he said carefully, "the first person who solves the riddle, unlocks the code." He gave Malcolm a grin, and whistling, turned to go again.

Malcolm picked up the file Emery had caught for him, and put it on the top of his pile. Of course Emery had read the files. Of course everyone else had read the files. He wondered why no one had mentioned them to him before this.

_Don't break the code_.

But…the first person in decades. Malcolm could smell the mystery encased in the file, and his fingers twitched. Congratulations, Mr. Taylor, do you know how many scientists have been unable to determine – certainly glad we have found you – this is quite an achievement – here, Pam, give Mr. Taylor another glass of wine….

Back in the safe confines of his laboratory, Malcolm busied himself, setting up a dinner of noodles and tea, all the while keeping a half eye on the file Emery had pointed out to him. Malcolm vaguely remembered reading it in the library several hours before – it wasn't especially notable, except that it had also mentioned robots, hence why Malcolm had brought it with him for further study, wondering if there was a connection between the Cyberman and the K-1. After all, the CyberKing had been a large robot – as had the K-1. And both had been defeated by the Doctor, who may very well have either left the message in the guise of Lynda and Caan – or had been their intended recipient. Oh, sorry, did we get you? We really wanted the _other_ scientific advisor for U.N.I.T.

It was only once the noodles and tea leaves were both steeping that Malcolm reached for the file, and flipped straight back to the appendix.

What he found made him forget both noodles and tea until long after they were both cold.

_If you'd like to see what Malcolm found in the appendix, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_sixteen dot jpg_


	17. Chapter 17

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Lynda Moss, Jack Harkness, and Wee!Amelia Pond.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Vertical I via Diagonal Right**

"Stupid Linda is in the stupid center square," the Master told K-9.

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9.

"Which means Stupid Linda is dreaming about a whole lot of things happening."

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9.

"Which means at some point, I have to invade Stupid Linda's dreams in order to find out what she's dreaming about."

"It is one method of determining such things, Master."

The Master raised his eyebrow. "There are other methods?"

"You could attempt a direct inquiry, Master."

The Master turned his laser screwdriver over in his hands. "You know, I never saw a sonic screwdriver in your little storyline."

The little tin dog's antenna ears twirled.

"Never mind," said the Master. "You know who deserves headaches? The Sycorax. They've got brilliant heads. I bet they get brilliant headaches."

* * *

Lynda sighed, and sat down on the nearest section of wall to wait. She didn't think she'd have to wait very long.

_Center square_, he'd said. She wondered what that meant – as if they were playing a game of tic-tac-toe? Of course, center square held all the power. And if she was center square….

By the time the Master reappeared, Lynda had a grin on her face.

"I'm center square, is that it?"

"Not _now_," said the Master impatiently, scanning the horizon. "Are the Sycorax still up there?"

"Other direction," said Lynda, and once the Master spotted them, he grinned like a banshee. It wasn't exactly pretty. "So I'm not center square anymore?"

"Quit thinking about yourself for a minute," snapped the Master. "Can I use that Vortex Manipulator? I have to give some aliens a headache."

"No!"

The Master sighed, walked over to Lynda, took her arm, removed the manipulator, and was fastening it on his own arm when Lynda began to sputter.

"What are you _doing_?"

"You're not stopping me."

"You can't give the Sycorax a headache! What are you _thinking_?"

"Might want to sit down," said the Master. "I'm not sure what's going to happen to you."

Lynda backed away. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll bring it back," said the Master, and frowned, as if he couldn't believe what he just said.

"You'd better," said Lynda. "That thing's worth half my yearly paycheck."

The Master still had the sour look on his face when he zipped off the rooftop, and presumably onto the Sycorax ship. Lynda scanned the skyline until she saw it, and bit her lip. She wondered where he'd learned how to use a Vortex Manipulator. She wondered if he had arrived safely, or if the Sycorax had already destroyed the intruder. She wondered if he really would return the Manipulator when he was done giving the Sycorax their headaches.

And then she sat down, and wondered why she was following the Master's instructions at all.

* * *

"Hi," said the Master. "Ooo, a blood control device! Nifty!"

The Sycorax looked up. "Who are you?"

"The Master," he said. "But never mind that. You know, normally, I'd ask first, but everyone's been questioning my evil status recently, so I think we'll skip the preliminaries and go straight into the fun part. Sweet dreams!"

And everyone fell asleep.

* * *

Amelia Pond pulled her knees under her chin, settling the heels of her shoes against the curve of the park bench. The wood was worn smooth by thousands of owners of wooly skirts taking a moment to look out on the duck pond, but there was still enough of a ridge that she could be confident that her feet wouldn't slip.

That was _one_ thing to be sure of, anyway. That she wouldn't slip and fall. That was good, to be sure of something, when you started doubting everything else you were certain was true.

Dr. Halifax, psychiatrist number four: "Do you believe he's real, Amelia?" In that kind sort of tone adults used all the time, like they were trying not to patronize, but weren't sure how to go about it without being obvious. And then he tried to explain why the Doctor was imaginary, which was when Amelia bit him.

"Honestly, Amelia," said Aunt Sharon, as if Amelia had fully intended to bite the psychiatrist. Arguing that Amelia hadn't intended to do it would be fruitless, since she'd done it three times already, to three other psychiatrists. The moment they reached the street, Amelia had taken off like a rocket.

Amelia sniffed, and rubbed at her nose with the back of her coat sleeve. It was already damp from previous rubbing, and didn't work very well.

The park was empty. Everyone in Gloucester was in school or work or moving between the two, and Aunt Sharon was probably sitting in the little pub near the psychiatrist's office, waiting for Amelia to show up again. Amelia had long since made it habit to run off after seeing a psychiatrist, and Aunt Sharon didn't bother to look for her anymore. Half the time, she didn't even bother trying to catch the fleeing girl, and instead shrugged her shoulders, found a comfortable place that served tea and sandwiches, and waited for her eventual return.

Amelia sniffed again. Aunt Sharon didn't believe in the Raggedy Doctor. No one really did. Even Rory thought he was imaginary, for all that he didn't mind Amelia talking about him, and helped Amelia put the pictures up on her wall.

It was cold in the park – soon, Amelia would have to go and find Aunt Sharon again, and listen to another lecture about how she shouldn't bite psychiatrists, shouldn't tell stories, shouldn't believe in imaginary things, shouldn't run off, and then they'd drive back to Leavenworth. "Lucky I waited, you could be taking the bus home," Aunt Sharon would say (as she always did), and Amelia would look out at the passing grey countryside and wish that she _could_ be on a bus, anonymous and small, and not be prey to a litany of shouldn'ts.

The ducks heard the man coming before Amelia did. She buried her head in her knees, hoping he'd just walk by. She didn't want to explain to anyone why she wasn't in school.

Instead, he sat on the opposite end of the bench. There was a small rustling sound, a bit like he was taking a paper bag out of his pocket, and rustling around inside. Amelia peeked out around her arms, in time to see him pop a bit of pastry into his mouth. He looked nice enough: rather generic, really. Dark hair, long coat with shiny buttons, dark trousers, light blue shirt.

Amelia went back to studying her knees. Nice enough, but still, she didn't dare move until he left. If she moved, it would mean she was game for a conversation. He might try to talk to her, but if she was still, perhaps he would forget she was there.

More rustling from the paper bag. Aunt Sharon would have cheese sandwiches for tea. Amelia's stomach growled.

"I've never been able to make up my mind about ducks," said the man. He had an American accent. Amelia decided to not like him, even if he sounded friendly enough. She pulled her knees in tighter.

"They're loud, they're obnoxious, and they have a habit of eating my shoelaces," continued the man.

Amelia peeked at him again. He wasn't looking at her; in fact, he might not have even spoken. Instead, he popped another piece of pastry into his mouth.

"Ducks don't eat shoelaces," said Amelia.

"Maybe not _yours_," said the man. "Mine must be delicious. To a duck."

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," said Amelia, and buried her face again.

"Of course not," said the man. "Good advice. I should follow it myself."

More rustling. Amelia thought he might be digging around for the crumbs at the bottom of the bag.

"Ducks," said the man, still trying to work it out. "Is there any point to a duck? You could cook them, but they're greasy. Not that many recipes calling for duck eggs that I've seen. And they eat my shoelaces."

Amelia lifted her head. "If you're trying to make me laugh, it won't work. And I'm not supposed to—"

"Talk to strangers, I know," said the man. "But you're not talking to me, you're listening to me. Did your aunt ever tell you not to listen to strangers?"

Amelia pinched her mouth together. "No," she admitted. "But she probably didn't think to say."

"Then you'll get off on a technicality," said the man.

Amelia, not entirely convinced, rested her chin on her knees and watched two of the ducks fight over a bit of toast.

"Ferocious creatures," said the man. Amelia made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. She'd been practicing it for weeks, but Aunt Sharon kept telling her to cough and get it over with, if there was something lodged in her esophagus.

The man made no such comment. In fact, he didn't say anything for several minutes. Amelia considered the noise a triumph, and liked him a little better.

The slightly larger duck snapped at the smaller duck's tail-feathers, and ran off with the bit of toast.

"No one ever believes me about ducks and shoelaces," said the man.

"That's because ducks don't _eat_ shoelaces," said Amelia.

"What do they eat?" asked the man.

Amelia thought about it. "Seaweed," she said. "And grass, and leaves, and lettuce. And toast."

"Apart from the toast, I'd say the shoelaces sound appetizing compared to that list."

"I've never seen a duck eat a shoelace," said Amelia.

"Do you always have to see something to believe it?" asked the man.

Amelia almost said 'yes', but thought about the Raggedy Doctor, and set her chin back on her knees.

"Most adults do," she said.

"Good thing I'm not most adults," said the man. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out not another bag of pastry, but an extra shoelace, and a bow tie, the old style that would need tying. Amelia tried to not look interested. "An experiment?"

"Okay," said Amelia.

The man tossed the shoelace and the bow tie at the remaining duck, busy grooming its ruffled feathers. The duck stopped its grooming immediately, and looked at the offered objects. It quickly nosed the bowtie aside before taking the shoelace up its beak and racing off to the pond, a bit of shoelace trailing behind it.

One of Amelia's feet slipped from the bench. "But – won't it get tangled up in its intestines?"

The man gave her an odd look. "How old are you?"

"Ten," said Amelia. "And you're dodging the question!"

"Don't worry about the duck, the duck will be fine," said the man, amused. "Do you believe me now about the shoelaces?"

"Yes," said Amelia.

"Good," said the man, and he settled back on the bench. "Knew I'd find someone who would, eventually. I just had to find the right person to listen."

Amelia bit her lip, and thought.

"I have a friend named the Doctor," she blurted out.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Do you now?"

"He lives in a blue box that's falling apart and he said he'd fix the crack in my wall and he'd be back in five minutes but that was three years ago and I haven't seen him since."

"Doctors have a way of running late sometimes," said the man bitterly. But not condescendingly, Amelia noted. She decided to take a chance.

"He said it was a time machine," she said quickly, the words tripping over themselves. "He said he had to jump forward five minutes because of the engines and the swimming pool was in the library and I went to get my suitcase but I woke up in the morning and Aunt Sharon was livid, because I'd slept all night in the garden."

The man blinked, taking it all in.

Most adults would laugh when Amelia told them the truth. Some of them would chuckle and comment on her imagination. Some of them would giggle and say how lovely it would be to have a floating library. Some of them would sigh and tell her to stop telling ridiculous stories. None of them ever believed her.

The man did not laugh. At all.

"The swimming pool wasn't in the library," he said, not to contradict her, Amelia knew, but in that tone that said her version of events wasn't quite matching up with what he knew.

"I think it spilled over," said Amelia. "His box was on its side."

The man frowned. "That's not good. What did it sound like when he dematerialized?"

Amelia became just a bit suspicious. "You believe me?"

"I don't need to see a duck eat a shoelace to believe it can happen," said the man.

"No one ever believes me," continued Amelia. "Why do you?"

"I just do," said the man.

Amelia turned on the bench to face the man. He hadn't moved closer to her. He wasn't even looking at her. She tried to memorize his face, so she could describe him to the police after he tried to kidnap her – but she didn't think he would.

"Are you going to kidnap me?" she asked.

The man snorted.

"Because if you were trying to kidnap me, you'd try to gain my trust," reasoned Amelia.

"I don't need you to trust me," said the man. "I just needed reminding."

"Of what?"

"That he exists," said the man.

"Why?" asked Amelia.

The man took the empty pastry bag and crumpled it up in his hand. "Maybe I'm waiting for him, too." He turned to Amelia then, and smiled. It was a sad smile, Amelia thought. "He left me behind a long time ago. Sometimes I forget for a few minutes. And then I look for someone else he left behind, to remember."

Amelia gripped the edge of the bench. "Is he coming back?"

"I don't know," said the man. He stood up and straightened his coat. "Maybe, if we're lucky."

Amelia rested her chin on her arm, and watched the man walk away. The duck with the shoelace followed behind him, trailing the brown lace in the dirt. He hadn't said goodbye – but then, neither had the Doctor.

Someone else knew about the Doctor. Someone else waited for him.

A _lot_ of someone elses, if what the man had said was true.

Amelia hopped off the bench and spied the bow tie lying in the gravel. She picked it up and put it in her pocket. It was smooth and slippery between her mittens. Feeling a great deal more confident with the bow tie in her pocket, Amelia left the park bench. There was a bit of a spring in her step now.

Someone believed her about the Doctor. Even if she didn't know his name. Even if he didn't know hers. Amelia wasn't alone anymore.

She liked that.

Maybe Aunt Sharon would have left her a cheese sandwich, and the next time she made an appointment with a psychiatrist, Amelia would simply refuse to go. She knew she wasn't mad. She was only waiting.

* * *

Deep in the trees surrounding the duck pond and the little bench, now devoid of people, the Master glared at the Sycorax scout standing next to him. "Okay, that was a lovely little scene there. Aren't you supposed to be in it?"

"I'm _watching_," said the Sycroax, irritable. He held his head as if it pained him.

"_Watching_?"

"It's surveys!" snapped the Sycorax. "Geez, don't you read? You always send a scout before the invading force comes in. I'm the scout. I'm judging the relative abilities of the native forces to determine the best method of taking over their planet. The invading force will be here in around eight years or so. Probably by Christmas."

The Master rubbed his temples. "You are the most ridiculous and useless alien I have ever come across in my entire lives. And believe me, they're fairly extensive."

The Sycorax scout glared. "You're lucky I'm unarmed."

"Yeah, lucky all over," snorted the Master. He pulled the roll of papers out of his back pocket. "So. I'm guessing Amelia and Amy are the same person. Jack Harkness, check. Sycorax, check. Which leaves me with….ducks? Shoelaces? Absentee Doctors? Bowties?"

The Master scowled, and made some notations on his paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like he was expressing his extreme hatred for a single person.

"You know," he said, "stupid of me to think you'd actually be involved here. You weren't involved in the last one, you were just on the periphery. So I'm willing to bet you'd be on the periphery in the next storyline as well. Fat lot of good you lot do me."

The Sycorax scout cocked his head, and then scowled. "Never mind unarmed. I can rip your head off."

"Maybe next time. Have fun with your surveys," the Master told the Sycorax scout. "Bit of advice. Blood control? Nice bit of business, but it has its downsides."

The Sycorax scout looked almost inspired, right before he fell asleep.

* * *

Lynda looked up from her nails as the Master popped back onto the rooftop.

"There you are," she said mildly. "Have fun?"

"I hate this thing," said the Master. "It makes my head spin."

"Yeah, it does that," said Lynda unsympathetically. She reached out and took the Manipulator before the Master could drop it on the gravel. "Find what you needed?"

"Almost." He looked at the golden rod in his hand, and then at Lynda, as if he was thinking about something. "Word association?"

"Oh, why not." Lynda fastened the Manipulator onto her wrist again.

"Rose."

Lynda blinked. "Who?"

The Master made a humming noise, and marked something on his ever-present papers. "Bowties?"

"I can tie one," said Lynda. "My uncle Harry taught me."

"That it?"

"Sorry," said Lynda.

"Ducks? Shoelaces? Waiting for Doctors who _never show up_?" The last was shouted at the sky.

Lynda shrugged. "Sorry."

"Bollocks," said the Master finally, and looked at his golden rod again, before shaking his head and shoving it back into his pocket in disgust – with the odd golden object or with something else, however, Lynda wasn't sure.

"_Those_ I know," she said cheerfully. "Want a list?"

The Master glared at her. "Sweet? Seriously?"

He was gone before Lynda could answer. She crossed her ankles and settled back to continue on her nails. Time was still stagnant, after all, and she didn't think the Master was quite done with her yet.

* * *

The Master glared at Romana. "The Sycorax are pointless alien forms that should be eradicated from all existence."

"Rasillon was working on that," said Romana, and played her next card.

The Master stamped off to sulk somewhere else. "And human females can join them!" he yelled over his shoulder.

Romana shook her head. "I feel sorrier for Lucy Saxon every day," she said, and gathered her winnings together.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_seventeen dot jpg_


	18. Chapter 18

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Lynda Moss, K-9, and Rose Tyler.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Vertical B to Horizontal N**

The Master was at an impasse.

Following the Sycorax into their third storyline would no doubt prove to be pointless, since they weren't precisely involved, and thus couldn't really afford him the ability to interact with the other players to determine what belonged in the empty squares.

Sally had only two storylines to her, and he'd exhausted those. While he had no doubt that she would be willing to let him try again, in order to get to Rose, who did have a missing storyline, he wasn't sure what that would do to Sally.

(Why Sally's welfare mattered was another issue, and one which the Master really needed to examine, but he was leaving it alone for now.)

Even the stupid tin dog had outlived his usefulness, which was just as well, since it had joined the Time Lords at the table in a game of Monopoly. The irony would have killed him, if he'd wanted to spare the regeneration, but he rather liked his current body.

He looked at his chart again. Two Lynda storylines missing. He was sure of it – there were five of them, the stupid aluminum mongrel had listed five distinct storylines for….

The Master leapt to his feet and stalked over to K-9. "Give me Lynda's storylines again."

"You could say _please_," said Romana absently.

"You _could_ put some hotels on Park Place," the Master snapped at her, and turned back to K-9. "Well?"

"I do not understand your request, Master," said K-9.

"Earlier – you gave me five storylines for Lynda. Recite them again."

The little dog's circuits whirred. "Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century. Employee of Torchwood as Lobby Receptionist. Contestant on the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House."

"Got that one," said the Master.

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century. Employee of Unified Intelligence Taskforce as a Time Flux Operative with operational assignment in 21st century."

"Right again," said the Master.

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century. Winner of the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House. Employed by Harkness Investigative Agency, London."

"Been there, done that," said the Master, now irritable.

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century. Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault and carried in the resultant Time Leap to Victorian London."

The Master frowned. "Victorian London?"

"Affirmative, Master," said K-9.

The Master studied his chart. "But not Sally's London?"

"The Victorian era spanned 75 years, Master. Sally Sparrow and Lynda Moss occupy two different decades within it."

"All right, all right. As long as she's not supposed to marry Dalek Crackpot, not that I exactly want to rattle around in his dreams, ta. What's the last storyline?"

"Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century. Former contestant on Big Brother House, 4,568th rendition. Successfully repaired TARDIS Chameleon Circuit during 100 Days Wait following the Dalek invasion of Earth."

The room fell silent.

The Master stood up.

"Chameleon circuit?" he repeated.

"Affirmative, Master."

The Master's mind was whirling. That took a lot.

"That's how you did it, isn't it – a _chameleon_ circuit?"

The little dog didn't answer, but its antenna ears quivered.

The Master scribbled something down on his ever-present papers.

"Well, looks like you haven't outlived your usefulness after all," he said smugly, and then with a grin, he and K-9 both disappeared.

* * *

"I am not entirely certain," began K-9.

"You don't have to be anything but in the process of showing me where you hide the chameleon circuit," said the Master, keeping his laser screwdriver firmly aimed at the tin dog.

The ice cream parlor disappeared, and was replaced by the Master's TARDIS. The Master snorted.

"Cheeky bugger," he muttered. He quickly fell to his knees and ripped up the grating. "Do you know what I'm going to do to him, first thing?"

"Negative, Master," said the tin dog, still quivering.

"Neither do I," said the Master, pausing in his work. "But I'd better make up my mind quick, since I'm nearly done, don't you think? _Ha_."

"Nearly done, Master?"

"Do you know what my TARDIS has, that the Doctor's does not, little friend?" asked the Master smoothly, as he pulled out a circuit from under the floorboards and tossed it in the air, catching it neatly on the descent.

The little tin dog's antenna-ears whirred. "A working chameleon circuit, Master."

"A working chameleon circuit," echoed the Master. "Exactly."

He studied the little circuit for a moment, and then pulled his laser screwdriver from his pocket.

"This might sting a little," he told the inanimate object, and thumbing his screwdriver to setting 4356, hit the circuit squarely in the transformative relays.

* * *

Rose Tyler lay on her back, hands folded across her stomach. Her hair spread out behind her head, her legs crossed at the ankles, and one toe tapped to a beat no one could hear – she was only half aware of its movement at all, really. Above her, through the glass dome, the stars twinkled and winked and danced in the heavens, and Rose counted them off, because she had nothing better to do.

She was joined, after a moment, by her near-constant companion.

"He's doing it again," said Lynda Moss, and stretched out on the floor next to Rose.

"What's his excuse now?"

"I didn't ask. Should I have asked? I didn't really want to ask."

"Mmm," said Rose, and shielded her eyes as the Game Station continued its slow rotation, pointing their window toward the sun. "You'd think, if he was going to mess about with anything, he'd try to get the replicators to make something other than macaroni cheese and limeade."

"Asparagus," said Lynda mournfully. "I'd kill for asparagus."

"I'd make do with a salad," sighed Rose. "All that cheese is making me break out in spots."

"Eighty-two days with nothing but starch and dairy—"

"_Fake_ starch, and _fake_ dairy," Rose corrected her.

"It'll do that to your skin," continued Lynda.

Rose didn't answer. The Game Station continued its rotation, and she was able to unshield her eyes.

"We have to get back," Lynda said.

"He sent you after me, is that it?"

"No," lied Lynda. "Okay, yes. Still true."

"Give me another minute," said Rose.

Lynda waited, not needing to ask why. The Earth slowly came into view through the glass dome.

Lynda rose to her knees, as if the extra few feet could afford her a better view. "Looks like Germaustria's stopped burning," she observed. "That's good, I thought those fires would never go out. I still can't see the Sicilian Republic. And the Channel's gone back to greeny-blue, that's got to be good news, eh?"

Rose didn't say anything. She only sighed, deeply, and Lynda reached for her hand.

"Hey," she said, trying to sound chipper. "London's still there. And it looks like Scotland's drying up. Haggis for dinner!"

Rose cracked a small smile. "Be a change from cheese, at least."

"How can you miss a change from macaroni cheese?" teased Lynda. "Come on." She pulled Rose to her feet, and together the girls headed down from the observation ring. "Maybe Rodrick fixed the radio relays by mistake today."

"More useful than him fixing the cameras," said Rose dryly.

"Or the money circuits," agreed Lynda, thankful to have Rose moving at least. "Of all the people who could have been—" Lynda gulped. "—Stuck here with us."

"Yeah," said Rose blankly.

Lynda let silence fill the stairwell. The lifts had long since stopped working, along with most of the other electronic systems on the station, save for those necessary for survival. Living on the station might have been pleasant, except for the lack of hot water the first fifty days (when Rodrick accidentally fixed the water heaters), the bland diet of macaroni (cheese only being added on Day 37, also due to Rodrick's accidental tampering), and the extreme boredom.

Rodrick had not yet managed to accidentally reverse boredom. Lynda half hoped he would, but really, she worried more that he'd stop accidentally fixing things in his mad attempt to get his 1600 credits, and accidentally knock the power circuits offline and have them all ejected into space, which would be infinitely worse than cold showers and dry macaroni.

How Rodrick had survived the massacre on Level 0, Lynda didn't know. For that matter, she wasn't entirely certain how she'd managed to survive either – the last thing she remembered was the Daleks outside the glass, the little lights blinking in unison on the tops of their domed heads, and then glass and metal flying everywhere.

When she woke, the Game Station was cold and silent. And save for Rodrick on Level 0, and Rose Tyler on Level 500, utterly empty. The three of them watched the Earth burn as the people below struggled to recover from the near-invasion from Daleks that no longer filled the sky.

Rodrick waited for them outside the TARDIS doors, his arms folded around himself while he glowered at the cords and cables strewn across the floor. He scrambled to his feet as they turned the corner.

"I'm not going in there," he said, clearly on the defensive. "There's perfectly good bedrooms on Level 272, and they're all going to waste by us sitting up here all the time."

Lynda's eyes popped. "Rodrick, you can't tell me you don't know what was _filmed_ on Level 272."

"It's not like anyone's filming it _now_," said Rodrick impatiently. "And I washed the sheets. They're fine."

"How about the walls?" said Lynda with a shudder.

"Do I want to know what was filmed on—?"

"No," said Rodrick and Lynda together, firmly.

Rose shrugged, and moved past Rodrick to unlock the TARDIS door. "So go. I don't care. I'm not leaving the TARDIS."

"It's been eighty days, Rose," said Rodrick, stopping Rose as she stood halfway in the TARDIS. He sounded impatient. "How much longer do you really think you're going to wait?"

Rose was infinitely still. "Forever," she said, and disappeared into the TARDIS.

"Shut up," Lynda said to Rodrick.

"I'm only saying—"

"Leave her alone," Lynda snapped. "Go get herphyllis on Level 272, see if either of us care. And good luck fixing the medical bay synthesizers, if you do!"

Lynda hurried into the TARDIS after Rose. She wasn't hard to find, having sat on the jumpseat, her feet propped up on the console so she could look dejectedly at the time rotor. The console room was dim, and it took Lynda's eyes a moment to adjust.

"Have we done Level 371 yet?" Lynda asked.

Rose didn't move. "What's Level 371?"

"Hell's Kitchen," said Lynda. "Might be some chocolate in one of the cabinets." Lynda paused. "Might even be green. That's two birds with one stone, isn't it?"

Rose didn't smile.

Lynda walked up to the console, and studied it. She knew how to drive a hovercar; she'd learned when she was seventeen, same as everyone else, but this – this was far beyond hovercar. Lynda couldn't even make sense of what might turn the ship on, much less actually fly it.

Not like a phone box was exactly aerodynamic. If the Doctor ever showed up again, that's what she would ask him, first thing, about how he dealt with wind resistance.

"Rodrick's right," said Rose suddenly.

Lynda looked up. "I don't care how tired I am, I'm not sleeping on Level 272."

"I should have listened to the Doctor," said Rose, and she sat up abruptly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I should have stayed where I was, back where it was safe, instead of coming back here."

"And leave me here with Rodrick?" said Lynda, growing alarmed at Rose's sudden turn. "Thanks!"

"He's not coming back."

Lynda knew she didn't mean Rodrick. "Stop that," she said, more harshly than she meant initially, but after seeing how Rose's head snapped up, she kept up the tone. "He's coming back. Of course he is! Don't you dare think anything different."

"He's not," insisted Rose, blinking furiously. "Don't you think if he could, he _would_ have already? This ship is the only thing he has left of his home – he'd never have left her this long voluntarily! And I don't even know where he is or how to _find_ him."

"He'll find us. We just have to wait."

"I'm sick of waiting!" shouted Rose. "I waited nineteen years for him once already, I don't want to wait another nineteen! He's not coming back, and we might as well get used to the idea!"

And as if to prove her point, Rose kicked the TARDIS console, knocking a circuit loose. It rolled acrossthe grating, and fell into the chasm below.

"Ow," said the chasm.

The girls blinked, and quickly fell to their knees to look.

"That _hurt_," said an irritable voice.

"Doctor?" asked Lynda cautiously.

"Rasillon, I hope not," said the voice, and he stood up. The man wore a black sweatshirt and ragged jeans, and his hair hadn't been washed in possibly millennia. "Well, if this isn't just peachy, finding the two of you here. That makes my job easier."

The girls moved incredibly fast, particularly considering they were somewhat malnourished from having spent the last two months eating nothing but macaroni cheese. Before the man could say another word, he found himself being choked by the arm of one Rose Tyler, with Lynda Moss sitting on his legs to keep him from moving.

"Hello," he wheezed. "I don't _bite_."

"It's not biting I'm worried about," snapped Rose. "Who are you? What did you do with the Doctor?"

"That would take entirely too long to tell," said the Master, and Rose's hold tightened. "_Ow_, do you _mind_?"

"Not much, no," said Rose.

"I don't want to hurt you," snapped the man, and instantly looked surprised by what he'd just said.

"News to me," said Lynda.

"News to me too," said the man, puzzled. "Can you get off my legs? I can't feel my feet."

Lynda rolled off his legs. Rose stared at her.

"What are you doing?"

"I trust him," said Lynda.

"_Why_?"

"I—" Lynda swallowed, looking surprised. "I have no idea," she finished, puzzled.

Rose stared at Lynda – and then let go of the man's larynx. She moved from behind the man to sit next to Lynda, and crossed her arms. Her eyes were still red.

"Thanks," said the man, coughing. He rubbed his throat. "Don't suppose you know where the Doctor is?"

"He'll be back in a minute," said Rose.

"Huh," said the man. "Weren't you just saying he wasn't coming back at all?"

Rose's mouth hardened. "You were _eavesdropping_?"

"It's not eavesdropping if you shout it from the rafters," said the man reasonably. "So you don't have any inkling, any notion, any tiniest thought about where he might have gone?"

"No," said Rose, irritable.

"Convenient," muttered the man. "Fine. Whatever. I've gone this far without him, might as well finish the job. The wanker."

"Oi!"

"You'll learn," the man advised Rose. "Right, so, let's get on with it."

The girls quickly tensed, clearly ready for some kind of assault. They weren't prepared for the man to pull a roll of papers out from his back pocket, along with a pencil.

"Hmm," he said. "Well, this is utterly useless. I've figured out most of your other storylines, and I don't have much of a clue as to what goes in the blank places." He looked up. "So – what's been going on with you?"

Lynda's mouth dropped open. "Who _are_ you?"

"The Master," he said. "We've been over this before."

"No, we haven't."

"Yes, we have."

"_No_, we haven't!"

"_Yes_, we have!"

"Listen, I think I'd remember meeting someone like you before," said Lynda.

"Dream a little," snapped the Master, and he turned to Rose. "Shaking in your shoes yet?"

"Why would I be shaking in my shoes?" asked Rose.

"Well, you traveled with the Doctor, didn't you? Surely he told you stories about how evil I am."

"No," said Rose. "Can't say he did."

The Master made a shocked sort of noise. "What? That _wanker_."

"You don't seem evil to me," said Lynda.

"I am _so_ evil," sputtered the Master.

"How evil are you?" said Rose innocently, in a sing-song sort of voice, and Lynda began to giggle.

The Master continued to sputter for a moment, and then angrily shoved his papers back in his pocket. "Well, this is pointless. I'll go home now."

"Nice meeting you," said Lynda, and actually meant it. The Master gave her an odd look just before he dropped back down below the grating.

A moment later, he reappeared.

"You haven't fixed the chameleon circuit yet, have you?"

"The what?" asked Lynda.

"It's broken," said Rose. "He said it was, been broken for centuries."

The Master banged his head against the grating. Then, for good measure, he banged it a second time.

"I can't get back unless I can turn it off," he said, miserably. "And I can't turn it off unless I can turn it _on_."

"Level 272 could help with that," said Lynda, with a straight face.

"Actually," said the Master, looking straight at Lynda. "I'm thinking you can."

Lynda slapped him.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the three travelers were sitting cross-legged just outside the TARDIS, circled by various cables and cross-connections, while the Master instructed Lynda on how to correctly fix the chameleon circuit.

"I don't see why _I_ have to do it," complained Lynda.

"Well, I can't do it," said the Master, annoyed.

"Must have been some slap," said Rose.

"That's not why I can't do it," snapped the Master. "And speaking of – do you _have_ to keep doing that?"

Lynda sat back and glared at him. "You _told_ me to turn the radial deflectors anti-clockwise…"

"Not that! I meant the _slapping_."

"I only slapped you _once_."

"Dream a little!" yelled the Master.

"Pipe down!" yelled Rose. "Do either of you _really_ want Rodrick to come up here complaining again?"

Lynda grumbled to herself and went back to the circuit.

"Who's Rodrick?" the Master asked Rose.

"The only other survivor," explained Rose. "He's on Level 272 or something."

"Why's he complaining?"

"He wants his money," said Rose. "He's been wandering around the last 80 days, accidentally fixing circuits while he tries to get the credits he thinks he deserves."

"Maybe Rodrick could fix this thing," said Lynda.

"No, has to be you," said the Master, and turned back to Rose. "Eighty days? That's when…"

"The Doctor disappeared," said Rose, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them in tight. "Right here, s'matter of fact. I came out of the TARDIS, and he was standing here, and then – I don't know. He disappeared."

"Daleks, too," said Lynda, looking up. "The station was swarming with them, and—"

"You, work," the Master told Lynda. "And careful with the connections, you're going to solder them too tightly and they won't be able to spin."

"I _am_ being careful," insisted Lynda.

"No, you aren't," said the Master, and turned back to Rose. "Disappeared? Just like that?"

Rose shrugged.

"What aren't you telling me?" pressed the Master.

"Not important," muttered Rose.

Lynda muttered something. The Master's eyes narrowed.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"He was angry," said Rose softly, and she pressed her nose between her knees, so that neither the Master nor Lynda could see her eyes. "I'd had to break open the TARDIS to get back. I looked into her heart—"

"You did _what_?"

Rose looked up. "I looked into the heart of the TARDIS. And she looked into me, and she brought me back, and he was angry, and….and he pulled it out. And it took him and the Daleks away."

The Master couldn't move. All he could do was stare at the girl sitting in front of him, who'd by her own account broken one of the more sacred laws governing the use of TARDISes in the first place. It had been drummed into their heads from their first flying lesson, repeated at every opportunity, printed in bold lettering on the front of every instruction manual.

And this girl – this stupid, puny, blonde, _human_ girl – had done it.

"You stupid ape," said the Master, and Rose Tyler broke into half tears, half laughter.

"Now you've done it," muttered Lynda, but never looked up from the circuit.

"What was I _supposed_ to do?" Rose demanded, still choking on what could have been giggles or sobs.

"I wasn't talking to _you_," said the Master, and Rose stopped choking to stare at him. Even Lynda looked up.

"You—" began Lynda, and with a glare, the Master sent her back to work.

"Do you have _any_ idea how dangerous that fool stunt was?" he asked – but he wasn't looking at Rose. "You could have _killed _her."

He was looking at the TARDIS.

"It worked," protested Rose.

"Of course it worked, the TARDIS _wanted_ it to work," said the Master. "She wanted to be with the Doctor as badly as you did, although Rasillon knows why, the wanker, if the first thing he did when you showed up was shove himself a hundred days into the future."

Rose's mouth dropped open. Lynda sat up.

"What?"

"Work," the Master said to Lynda.

"No way," said Lynda. "Explain."

"Blondie here was dying, probably," the Master told Lynda. "Vortex energy has a way of doing that. It's why the first thing we learn _not_ to do is what _she_ did. Only way to stop the process was to pull the energy out of her. The energy had to go somewhere. The Doctor probably used it to shove himself through time."

"But the Daleks," insisted Lynda. "The Daleks disappeared, too – did they go with him?"

"Um," said Rose, and bit her lip. "That was me. Before he – uh. Yeah."

The Master looked Rose over again, far more approvingly. "Well done, you. Clearly, I picked the wrong blonde."

"Oi," said Lynda, and frowned, not having any idea why she said it. She crouched back over the chameleon circuit before either of the others could question her.

"A hundred days," said Rose.

"Don't ask," said the Master. "But I'm willing to guess that's when he'll make his reappearance to fall in your arms."

Rose blushed. "What makes you think—"

"Oh, don't _even_," sighed the Master. "He saved your life, blondie."

"He did," said Rose to herself, and the smile that tickled the edge of her lips was genuine.

The Master didn't notice. "If he wants to fall in your stupid human arms, just _let_ him. You can tell him he's got me to thank for it. That'll unnerve him."

There was a click from the chameleon circuit, and Lynda sat up with a squeal. "I got it!"

The Master nearly fell on the circuit, examining it. "You did it!" he breathed, barely able to believe his eyes.

Lynda picked up the circuit carefully between her fingers, a smile spreading across her face. "I have no idea how to install it."

"I do," said the Master. He looked at Rose, who still wore a somewhat goofy smile on her face. "You wait here, tell us when it works," he said, and Rose nodded.

He pushed Lynda by her shoulders back into the TARDIS. "You have to do it," he told her. "I'll talk you through it."

"I can't believe I did it," said Lynda, gleefully. She dropped down below the grating. "Everyone's committing acts of accidental repair, I guess!"

"You and Rodney—"

"_Rodrick_."

"Whatever. You're hardly everyone," said the Master. "On your left, eight centimeters above the flooring, blue indention. Do you see it? Slide the circuit lengthwise in there."

"You included," said Lynda as she happily complied.

"I didn't fix anything, you did."

"You fixed Rose. She's been hurting ever since the Doctor left. You comforted her, telling her that he saved her life. And that he'd be back. She'd stopped believing it."

"Don't know why she believes me," said the Master.

Lynda shrugged. "I don't know why I trusted you. But you haven't hurt us, and you helped us fix the circuit."

"And that helps you how?" asked the Master after a moment.

Lynda paused. "Well. You know _how_. If you know how to fix something on the TARDIS, you maybe know something about Time Lords that we don't. Including where the Doctor might have gone."

The Master didn't know what to say.

Lynda shrugged. "Anyway, thanks. I was beginning to worry about her. But a hundred days isn't so far away. I think she'll be okay. You did that."

"Oh, _bollocks_," said the Master suddenly, and Lynda looked up to see him pull the papers back out of his pocket, study them, and scribble something down. "I hate him."

"Hate who?"

"The Doctor," snapped the Master.

"Why?" asked Lynda.

"He's making me commit random acts of kindness," said the Master, entirely put out.

"Better than committing random acts of violence," said Lynda reasonably.

"That'd be too kind of him," said the Master.

"Anyway, that's my job," continued Lynda brightly. "Isn't it? You say I keep slapping you."

Lynda popped her head above the grating. The Master gave her a narrow look, and wondered if perhaps she was beginning to remember….

"Dreaming lately, have you?" he asked.

"You keep asking me about dreams," said Lynda.

"I have my reasons," he said darkly. "You keep slapping me."

"I probably have my reasons," retorted Lynda. "Keep annoying me, I might have to recommit those random acts of violence."

The Master's eyes narrowed. He scribbled something else down on his paper, and then stared at it for a while.

"Do you dream about Daleks?" he asked.

Lynda stilled. "That's not funny."

"I'm not being funny."

"Well, then, don't talk to me about Daleks," said Lynda shortly. "A bunch of them tried to kill me."

"So you wouldn't dream about marrying one, then?"

Lynda raised her hand as if to slap him. The Master stepped out of the way.

"Victorian era, maybe?" he tried, hopeful.

Lynda blinked, and stared at him.

"Is the circuit installed?" the Master asked, having noted the blink. "I think I'm done here."

"Should be," said Lynda, wondering why she suddenly felt sorry.

The Master leapt to his feet smoothly, and turned to the console. Lynda scrambled onto the grating in time to see him reach for a knob with only a moment's hesitation.

"How d'you know it's _that_ one?" she asked, curious.

"No idea," said the Master, and flicked the knob.

Rose's laughter floated through the doorway. "It worked! The TARDIS looks exactly like the entrance to an ice cream parlour!"

"Figures," grumbled the Master under his breath. He flicked the knob again. "Back to original."

"You're going, then," said Lynda as he dropped below the grating.

"People to see, worlds to annihilate," said the Master.

"I won't see you again?" asked Lynda, and the Master looked up at her.

"In your dreams, blondie," he said.

The words might have been mean, but Lynda could have sworn he sounded kind saying them.

And then he was gone.

* * *

K-9's antenna ears still quivered.

"Oh, stop that," said the Master, and disappeared, unwilling to wait another minute.

* * *

"Back so soon?" asked Romana, and finished dealing the cards for five-card-stud.

The Master pointed to the Time Lords in turn. "He's got a pair of kings, he's got a small flush, she's got a small straight, and he's going to bluff with a nine high."

The Time Lords groaned and threw their cards in.

"Why did you do that?" asked Romana, exasperated.

"Told you," said the Master. "_Evil_."

"Well, then, what do I have?" Romana asked him, sounding sweet and menacing all at once.

"Me," said the Master, "but not for much longer."

"Good riddance," muttered the Time Lord with the small straight as the next hand was dealt out.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_eighteen dot jpg_


	19. Chapter 19

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Lynda Moss and Dalek Caan.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Star to Vertical N**

It was a very long time before the Master reappeared in the Council Room.

"Having fun?" asked Romana icily.

"Not particularly," said the Master glumly.

"It's been a while since you caused mass destruction and mayhem," said Romana. "You must be absolutely bored out of your mind."

"Not bored, no," said the Master.

"Starving?" suggested Romana.

"Angry?" suggested another Time Lord.

"Anxious?"

"Jittery?"

"Impatient?"

"Apprehensive," said the Master, and the Time Lords stared at him.

"Oh, shut up," he snapped, and disappeared.

* * *

K-9's nose glowed red – a sure warning sign that he was about to become very serious indeed about Torchwood security. "Please vacate—"

"He's gone," said Lynda suddenly. The lobby was empty – the man who had only moments ago been antagonizing her had disappeared, for a second time.

K-9's antenna ears spun. "He may return, Mistress. I will wait for him."

Lynda sat back down on her chair. Her head was spinning a little. "What's the point? Soon as you say anything, he'll just disappear again." Lynda rubbed her forehead. "What did you mean about the Doctor not being here?"

"The Doctor is not located in Torchwood at present."

"I got that," said Lynda. "Who's the Doctor?"

"The Doctor is not located—"

"All right!" said Lynda testily, and thought she sounded like the Master for a moment. "Never mind. Do you know why this Master would want him?"

K-9's circuits whirred. "The Master hopes to escape the Doctor's trap."

"Trap. Trap? Like – a game?" asked Lynda, wondering where the thought came from.

"Yes, Mistress."

Lynda rested her chin on her hand, thinking. Trapped in a game….it sounded…familiar. In an odd way. A bit like herself, trapped at Torchwood, on Earth, trying to escape – but she wanted to escape _into_ a game.

Didn't she?

"You know, if he does show up, I'll be fine," said Lynda. "He doesn't seem violent. You should go back."

K-9, it was clear, did not like this plan. "Mistress—"

"Go back to the Security office, K-9," said Lynda firmly. "I'll let you know if he returns."

K-9 couldn't disobey a direct order, and Lynda knew it. Just as she knew who she'd see standing at her desk the moment the lift doors closed on the little dog.

What she didn't expect was the way he looked: pale, and lost, and a bit sick.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You don't look so well."

The Master laughed, and pulled the little golden rod out from his pocket. "I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I'm absolutely peachy. Fine fine finnelly fine."

"Sit down," said Lynda, and she pulled him to the couches in the center of the lobby. He didn't resist. "I tried to ask K-9 about your friend the Doctor—"

"Not my friend," muttered the Master. "Not in years."

"I thought as much, if he's trapped you here," said Lynda. "That's what K-9 said, anyway." She sat on the coffee table opposite him. "That why you keep appearing and disappearing? You're trying to get out?"

"Clever, aren't you?"

"I don't know about clever," said Lynda.

"Don't be stupid," said the Master, and fell back against the cushions.

"Oh, now I'm stupid?" Lynda snorted. "I _was_ going to put out that all-points bulletin to the staff, about you, like you suggested, but seeing as I'm probably too stupid to operate the system—"

The Master opened his eyes. "What do you dream about?"

Lynda blinked. "Dream?"

"Yes, dream. Close your eyes, go to sleep, little pictures running through your mind."

"I don't know, lots of things," said Lynda. "Why?"

"Nothing recurring?" the Master pressed.

Lynda shrugged. "Maybe. Why? Are they important?"

"In a way," said the Master. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the familiar gold rod.

"You never did say what that was."

"No, I never did." The Master looked down at the rod, turning it over in his hands.

"Will it extract my dreams, is that it?"

"Something like that," said the Master. He hadn't looked up from the gold rod.

"Like a hologram?"

"Not quite."

Lynda waited. The Master continued to turn the rod over and over in his hands.

"Well," said Lynda. "Don't you think you should get on with it?"

The Master sighed. "I used to be evil."

"I don't believe it," said Lynda.

The Master looked up at her. "Don't you?"

There was a sharp pain on the side of her head, and the last thing Lynda saw before falling asleep in the Master's lap was his face, contorted, as if he was doing something immensely painful but necessary to accomplish.

* * *

Most well-bred people, when slipping down the dark byways of London, would have barely given the child a second glance, had they even bestowed a first glance upon her frail and ragged form. However, most well-bred people did not care to slip down dark byways of London, and thus they would very likely have never had the opportunity to wonder about her strange companion, who would certainly have earned a second glance, if not a third.

It is just as well that the second glance was never offered, since it would have necessitated a third, and that third glance would have undoubtedly caused their imminent deaths.

To be fair, the child was not exactly a child, but a woman grown. But London offered very few trades for women without family or home, and none of them were to her liking. She had stumbled onto the masquerade of a child, and clung to it, not seeing any alternative. It was the dead of winter, well past Christmas when one could hope for an extra farthing or two from gentlemen who felt as though they were bestowing largesse upon those in need.

The child-woman wrapped the thin shawl around her shoulders to block the gusts of wind, and huddled next to her companion, for all that he – she – it did not provide much warmth or comfort, except in some dim sort of familiarity. It was in the same situation as she, after all, and despite any distrust that lay between them (and there lay a great deal), there was something to be said for familiarity.

"We should be on the street," said her companion. His – her – its voice was solid and high, like metal against metal. It unnerved everyone but the girl, and she had long since stopped cringing when she heard it.

"No," she said, her voice muffled by the shawl.

"There are more people—"

"_No_!"

Her companion was quiet, but its domed head swiveled. "Fagin will not—"

"Fagin can go hang," snapped the girl. "I'm tired of being overlooked."

"He very well might," replied her companion. "If you do not return with the required—"

"Ten minutes," said the girl, and buried her nose in the scarf. "I just need ten minutes to _sit_."

"I will wake you," said her companion, and the girl let out a sigh, and rested her head against the casing, where it fit neatly between the bumps that acted as stone-hard pillows.

The screams woke her only moments after she closed her eyes. She might have ignored them, but for the stories that had been whispered in the house at night, when the children crept from pallet to pallet, eyes wide as they traded rumors. Toby had made a song of it:

_Monsters in daylight, shining like the sun, snatching children from the streets, one by one by one._

But the children had stopped disappearing after Christmas. She could still remember the giant automaton that walked the streets of London, entirely out of place, and how it fell. But still the song tumbled through her head as she sprang to her feet and raced down the alley toward the shouting. A sensible girl would have raced the other way. She was far from sensible.

"Come back," said her companion, vibrating. "Do not leave me—"

"I have to see," gasped the girl, and flung herself around the corner, just in time to see….

Nothing. The alley was empty.

Her footsteps crunched in the snow as she walked further into the alley. Yes, the screams had certainly come from here, and save for the entrance where she'd come in, where it had forked to the street, there had been no other way for the screamers to escape.

She looked at the buildings around her: they looked much the same as any of the buildings in this part of London, except perhaps a bit more boarded to guard against peering eyes. The snow at her feet was packed down, as though thousands of feet had marched through, though with nowhere to go, the girl wasn't sure this made any sense. Why would thousands of feet come in this direction?

It was as she turned to leave that she saw it: the single, perfect footprint, perfectly oval, with indents indicating some kind of traction pounded into the shoe. It was larger than any other shoe she had ever seen. It was perfect, and perfectly wrong.

A creeping sort of feeling danced on her spine, as if someone was standing just behind her, about to tap her on the shoulder. The robots couldn't be back again, could they? The last thing she needed was more panic about strange creatures in London. After all, she knew without a doubt that her companion was not responsible for the disappearance of the children, but try convincing Fagin or Nancy of that. No matter what he _was_ responsible for (and it was a good deal), it wasn't that. After all, he'd never hurt her. Not once. And he could have. She raced around the corner, suddenly anxious to find her own metallic monster waiting for her.

"Caan," she said. "A footprint! Perfectly oval."

Caan's head spun. "Not Earth origin?"

"Can't be," she said.

It was difficult, moving him over the snow. But when Caan saw the footprint, she knew it was worth it.

"Cyberman," he said, his monotonous voice growing a sense of distaste and elation, all at once.

The girl's eyes widened. "But – how? They've been gone for months. They went insane – we saw them!"

"One must have survived," said Caan, and he looked around the alley. "There," he said, his eyestalk stopping as it looked on a bare patch of wall. She went to the wall, and rested her hand on it. It shifted slightly.

"A door," she said, and took a step back. "If there's a Cyberman in there—"

Caan did not answer. He did not need to answer; his dismay at the destruction of the Cybermen in December was too fresh in their memories. Crude as they may have been – to him, if not to the local population – they might have afforded him the tools necessary to get home.

The girl took a breath, and slid the door open in one swift movement. She revealed an extremely curious tableaux.

"Oh," said the man cheerfully, from where he straddled a Cyberman, face-down in the dirt. He wore a dark sweatshirt and jeans, and his hair looked as if it had not been washed in a century or more – thus making him more like a Victorian gentleman than his clothes would otherwise indicate. "Hello. I wondered when you would show up."

The girl's eyes widened. "Wait – but – how – I don't—"

"Step back," said Caan, his voice going into full-disaster-mode. "I will exterminate the human."

"_Human_!" yelled the man, highly insulted. "You think I'm _human_?"

Caan's eyestalk rotated. "Respiratory bypass, dual heart system, temperature near 15 degrees Celsius. You are Time Lord."

"Damn straight!"

"You will be exterminated," said Caan, his voice rising in what was certainly pleasure.

"Caan. No! Bad Dalek! No extermination!" the girl yelled as Caan began to advance. Caan immediately stopped rolling, and his eyestalk drooped.

The man's mouth dropped open. "Bad Dalek?" he repeated. "You can't be serious."

"What have I told you?" the girl scolded the Dalek. "You can't keep exterminating people. It doesn't help anything!"

"He is a Time Lord," said Caan mournfully.

"Doesn't matter," said the girl. "He's not hurting us."

"I _could_," said the man helpfully.

"Please be quiet," the girl said to him, and turned back to Caan. "We'll just ask him very nicely if he can't hand over the Cyberman, and see what he does."

"What if he doesn't?" asked Caan.

"Yeah, what if I don't?" asked the man.

"_Then_ you can exterminate him," the girl told Caan, whose eyestalk instantly brightened and focused on the man.

"Can I ask _why_ you need a Cyberman?" asked the man. "I mean, they're not exactly useful, unless you're bent on mass destruction and mayhem. Although in your case, I have to wonder if you're going to turn it into a pet."

Caan would have bristled, if he had attachments that bristled. "I am not a pet."

"Bad Dalek," the man scolded him. "Sit. Stay. Heel."

"Caan needs his parts to get home," said the girl.

"Oh, cannibalism. Much better," said the man, and he immediately hopped off the Cyberman.

"It's not cannibalism," said the girl. "We're not Cybermen."

"Fine, then, scavenging." He moved toward the girl while Caan started cutting into the Cyberman's shell. He slapped his arms in a clear attempt to warm up. "Bit nippy in here, isn't it?"

"Who are you?" asked the girl. The man sighed.

"We have to start that again, do we? I'm the Master."

"No, I know you're the Master," said the girl, impatient. "What I really want to know is – well, how are you here? I thought you were my imagination."

The Master raised his eyebrow. "Imagination?"

"I dream about you," she said.

"Linda Moss dreaming about me," said the Master thoughtfully.

"See! You know my name even!" said Lynda. "Who _are_ you, really? Caan called you a Time Lord – what _is_ that?"

"Lord of Time," said the Master, watching Caan pull various bits and pieces out of the Cyberman. "An alien, basically."

"And you're running around in my dreams?"

"You really think I'd want to run around in _your_ dreams?" snorted the Master, and caught a glimpse of Lynda's suddenly hardened face. "I'm stuck, if you have to know. Your dreams, Caan's dreams – they're all one great big trap that fool Doctor has set up, and I'm trying to get out."

"A trap?"

The Master pulled the roll of papers out from his back pocket and showed it to her. "Here, see? He's set it up like a Bingo game. I figure out the card, I unlock the trap, I'm set free."

Lynda let out a squeak. "You spelled my name wrong!"

"Did I?" The Master pulled the papers back. "Well, how's it meant to be spelled?"

"With a Y!"

"All right then, if you're going to be whinging about it." The Master quickly made the notation.

"And you called me stupid!" continued Lynda, still clearly annoyed.

"Haven't proven me wrong, have you?" retorted the Master.

Lynda snatched the papers back and traced the squares on the card. There – that was her dream about Jack and K-9. There was the dream about K-9 and Torchwood. That was the dream about the Sycorax and Torchwood. That was the dream about Rose and the Chameleon Circuit.

"I'm a dream?" said Lynda, her voice wavering. "That's all this is – a _dream_?"

The Master pinched her arm.

"Ow!" yelped Lynda. Caan stopped his work and swiveled his head. "I'm okay, Caan. Stubbed my toe. No extermination needed."

Caan returned to work.

"Touchy, isn't he?" remarked the Master.

"He's very protective," said Lynda loyally.

"Odd for a Dalek, to be _protective_."

"I wouldn't know," said Lynda. "I….I don't remember much, not before waking up with him right next to me. I sometimes think the dreams are what happened before, but they don't make sense, what with flying cars and living above the Earth, and if there's Daleks in them, I'm afraid of them. I've never been afraid of Caan."

"You should be," said the Master.

"I'm not afraid of you, either," said Lynda. "And half the time in my dreams, you're telling me I should be afraid of you, too."

The Master stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I used to be evil."

Lynda shrugged. "I used to be sweet. It's too hard to be sweet when you're lifting someone's wallet."

The Master gave her a nearly approving glance. "Is that so?"

"Had to live somehow," said Lynda. "And doing it on my back didn't appeal. Fagin's a good teacher, though."

The Master frowned. "Fagin? I've heard that name somewhere."

"Run into many pickpockets in London?" asked Lynda.

"Not at such," said the Master. "Who's Fagin?"

"Taught me the ropes. Gives me a place to stay and something to eat, when I bring home his share of what I've stolen," said Lynda.

"There's not a boy named Oliver running around, is there?" asked the Master, suspicious.

Lynda's eyes widened. "Yes?"

The Master winced and rubbed his head. "That bloody _wanker_, he dumped me in a Dickens novel."

"Dickens?" asked Lynda.

"They don't read Charles Dickens in the 501st century?" snapped the Master. "Never mind. Oi!" he shouted to Caan. "Are you done yet?"

"Yes," said Caan, backing away. "I have obtained the parts necessary for temporal repair."

"Lovely," said the Master, and pulled out the papers again. "Dickens, robots, timey-whimey nonsense. Righty-ho, then. Lynda, you might want to sit down for this."

The Master shoved the papers back in his pocket, strode towards the Cyberman, and pulled a little golden cylinder from his pocket. Flicking it with his thumb, he aimed it directly at the Cyberman and….

"Bloody hell," he swore. "I forgot. It's already _dead_."

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Lynda. "Considering they were trying to take over London a few months ago."

The Master groaned, and slumped beside the lifeless Cyberman. "It _has_ to be the Cyberman. There's no other way to get to its other storyline, and I can't break the rest of the code without getting there."

Lynda sat down next to the Master, biting her lip. He didn't make a move, except to continually rub at his temples. After a moment, Lynda reached over and pulled the roll of papers from his pocket, and spread them on her lap.

"This line is the Cyberman?" she asked.

"Yes," mumbled the Master.

"Fantasy, Sycorax, Cyberman, first person," read Lynda. "Whoever's in this empty square – they'd interact with any of these things, is that right?"

"Right."

"Why not send him a message?" suggested Lynda. "We could use the Cyberman to do it."

The Master's head snapped up. "A message?"

"You could pick it up from the zombies. Or the pickles," said Lynda. "But that's probably a stupid idea."

The Master didn't say anything. Instead, he took the papers back and ceremoniously drew a thick line through the "stupid" preceding Lynda's name.

"Gosh," said Lynda, pleased.

The Master rolled his eyes. "Dickens doesn't last, but 'gosh' does. That's humanity for you."

Lynda had every intention of making a fiery, brilliant, wonderfully inventive retort – until she yawned.

"Whoops," said the Master. "My time's up. Your counterpart is about to wake up."

"We'll leave the message for you," Lynda promised him.

The Master opened his mouth, about to say something, and then closed it with a snap.

He opened it again, inhaling as though ready to speak – and closed his mouth a second time without uttering a sound.

It was only on the third attempt that he succeeded in making a rather scratchy, nearly unintelligible, "Thank you."

Lynda's eyes widened. "You'd think you never said that before."

"I haven't," said the Master, clearly amazed with himself. "What a nightmare."

And then he was gone.

Lynda sat back and blinked.

A nightmare…..

Caan rolled forward. "I did not exterminate him."

"No," said Lynda, still dazed. "Thank you. That was very good of you." She looked up at her companion. "We have to leave a message on the Cyberman. I told him we would. Do you have anything that can mark the casing?"

"I have a laser that will etch into the metal."

"That should work." Lynda reached over and looked inside the now-empty torso of the Cyberman. "This ought to stay nice and safe, don't you think?"

"It will take a moment to configure the laser," said Caan, and while he did that, Lynda sat back to think.

Dreaming.

He'd been appearing in her dreams.

And this – this was his nightmare?

But if he was still dreaming – or if she was dreaming – then where was the _real_ her?

And worse – when he escaped whatever trap he was in – when he woke up….what would happen to her, and all the hers in her dreams? Would she cease to exist?

Had she ever existed outside of the dreams at all?

"I am ready to etch the message," said Caan.

"Good," said Lynda. "Here's what I'd like it to say."

* * *

Lynda was still asleep when he returned. She'd fallen into his lap; he hadn't realized at the time. Or maybe he hadn't worried about it.

He ought to simply stand up, and let her tumble to the floor. That would be a truly evil thing to do. Or maybe just disrespectful?

The Master wasn't sure. He slid out from under her, and pulled a pillow over to put under her head.

_You put a pillow under my head_, Sally's voice reminded him, and he nearly growled at it.

"Pillows don't make a person nice," he told the sleeping Lynda. "They just mean there's a pillow handy. I'm _evil_. With a capital E!"

Lynda sighed in her sleep, and tucked her hand under the pillow.

"I'm so evil, I'm not even going to fix the headache you're going to wake up having," he told her. "I could. But I won't."

He stood up, wondering why he didn't feel more excited. It was all moving very well. Only one more stop to make, and he'd have his message returned about the missing squares, and everything would be just fine. Perfect! One more stop, and he'd be able to unlock the Key and get to Reality.

Lynda's headache wouldn't matter, because there wouldn't be a Lynda to _have_ a headache.

All the same.

When Lynda woke some twenty minutes later, she had a splitting headache.

She also found herself staring at a glass of water and the bottle of paracetemol she usually kept in her desk drawer.

Lying between the two was a note, on which he'd scrawled a message:

_Sorry._

_

* * *

_

"Aren't you gone yet?" asked Romana when the Master popped back into the Council Room.

"Soon," grumbled the Master.

"Said that before," muttered a Time Lord, and ducked down under the table to escape the Master's withering glare.

"When I get out of this infernal hell," said the Master slowly, carefully, distinctly, "I'm going to have the supreme pleasure of turning around and _locking you all back in._"

He turned to leave the room.

"That's the best he can threaten us with? If that's evil, he's losing his touch," remarked one of the Time Lords. The Master heard them, and cringed.

Romana tapped her teeth thoughtfully with her fingernail.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like now, please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_nineteen dot jpg_


	20. Chapter 20

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Ten2, Rose Tyler, and Sally Sparrow.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Vertical G to Horizontal O**

"Who was he?" Rose Tyler asked the half-human Doctor.

"Old school chum," said the Doctor tersely. He glanced at Sally, now slumped in slumber on the floor. Something was tickling in the back of his mind, only he couldn't quite figure out why. Or what. Or how, for that matter.

"Nice choice in mates you got there," said Rose.

"I got better at it," said the Doctor, and he knelt at Sally's side. "Sally – Sally! Wake up."

Sally reached up to rub her eyes as she woke. "Hmm? I was having such an odd dream…"

"Seems to be a lot of that recently," mused the Doctor. He pulled Sally to her feet.

"But, Doctor, how did he get here?" asked Rose, ever persistent. "You told me there weren't any Time Lords in Pete's World."

Sally's grip on the Doctor's hands tightened. "Wait – that wasn't a dream? The Master was really _here_?"

The Doctor nodded, giving Sally a closer look. "You thought he was a dream?"

"Not thought," insisted Sally. "He _was_ in my dream. A lot of dreams, actually."

"A lot?" echoed the Doctor. He frowned. "That just doesn't make sense. Me dreaming about the Master, that's one thing—"

"_You've_ been dreaming about him?" Rose interjected.

"He's part of my past, of course I have! But s'far as I know, Sally, he never interacted with you. There'd be no reason for him to be part of your dreams."

"Or mine?" asked Rose, and her companions looked at her.

"You, too?" asked Sally.

The Doctor's face darkened. "Rose, are you dreaming about the Master?"

"Not exactly," said Rose. "I mean. Well. Okay, there was a guy in a dark sweatshirt once, but I don't really remember—"

"I want to look," said the Doctor, and both women crossed their arms in defiance. "Just a _peek_. You don't understand how dangerous he is."

"He's not dangerous in my dreams," said Rose.

"Nor mine," added Sally.

"He's actually kind of…nice."

"In a rude sort of way."

"_Nice_?" sputtered the Doctor.

"I kind of like him, actually," admitted Sally.

"You _like_ him!"

"He told me," said Rose quietly, "that you'd come back. In my dream, I mean. I was dreaming about being on the Game Station, except you weren't there, and he showed up and told me you'd come back."

Rose's gaze on the Doctor was stubborn. It was probably the same gaze she'd used on Pete Tyler when insisting on the materials needed for the Dimension Cannon. Pete Tyler hadn't stood a chance. But then, Pete Tyler wasn't a metacrisis human-Time Lord hybrid.

"Rose, you can't trust him," said the Doctor. "He's tried to destroy the Earth and any other planet in his path more times than you or I could count, which as you know is pretty high. He's a megalomaniac who only cares about himself and uses anyone in his path to get what he wants, which is total world domination. He's destroyed lives with the flick of a finger and he's hurt people both you and I care about. If he told you anything about me, it was only because he needed you to believe it in order to take some kind of advantage. You can't trust a word he says."

"Even if it was true?" asked Rose quietly, unmoved.

"But that's not true," said Sally, and when Rose redirected the gaze in her direction, quickly amended. "I mean, the part about not caring for anyone but himself. In my dream, he's kind of obsessed with this girl."

"What girl?" asked the Doctor quickly.

Sally shook her head. "I don't know, I don't think she's in my dream. He just talks about her a lot."

"Obsession isn't always an indication of kindly feelings," said the Doctor.

"Oh, fine," said Sally crossly. "Go on in, then, if you don't believe me." She stepped up to the Doctor and took his hands, putting them on her temples. "Poke around or whatever it is you want to do."

The Doctor frowned – and did.

* * *

"Is the artist gone again?" asked Sir Randolph Spencer-Churchill with no small amount of annoyance. "One wonders if he'll ever finish, if he never starts."

"I suspect he's started," said the visitor cheerfully. He sat with a thump down on one of the sofas and grinned up at Sally as he reached into a paper bag for a peanut. She frowned; there was something just a bit _off_ about him. "Question is: _will_ he finish? What do you think, Sally?"

"Have we met?" asked Sally.

"Will do," said the man. "I'm the Doctor. Would you like a peanut?"

Sally frowned. "I know you."

"Of course you do. You'd think I'd be able to find a decent jelly baby in dreamland, but no such luck. Or maybe I just don't like them as much as I did once. Pity. Anyway, I might as well get on with it, since I'm here – what's the Master up to these days, Sally Sparrow soon-to-be Spencer-Churchill?"

Sally's mouth dropped open. "I _do_ know you. I dream about you."

Randolph sputtered. "I say, is that entirely proper—"

"Not really, no," said the Doctor cautiously. "Although to be fair, there's quite a lot of that going around. Dreaming in general, that is. Here, Randolpho, I'm out of peanuts. You don't have any in the kitchens, do you?"

Randolph frowned, his moustache quivering. "Might do, old chap."

"There's a fellow, can you get me another bag?" The Doctor handed the empty bag to him and slapped him on the shoulders, deftly turning him at the same time and shoving him out the door. "Tarry away!"

Sally crossed her arms. "It is _entirely_ inappropriate for you and I to—"

"I know," the Doctor interrupted her, and he bent down just enough to look into Sally's eyes as if hunting for something reflected there. "_Focus_, Sally, you're going to wake up in a minute. You said the Master's obsessed with a girl—"

"Center square," said Sally. "She's in the center square."

The Doctor frowned. "Okay. And that means…."

"She's the key," said Sally. "I don't understand most of it, but – he's trying to get out of the Time Lock, and she's center square, so she has the most information available to her. He made a chart, I saw it."

The Doctor jumped up and pushed Sally to the easel on the other side of the room. "Draw it," he told her.

"I – I can't! I don't remember all of it—"

The Doctor tapped her head. "It's a dream, Sally. You can remember anything you want as long as you don't try too hard."

Sally turned to the easel and frowned. She picked up the paintbrush lying nearby and after a brief hesitation, began to sketch out the chart scribbled on the Master's papers.

"Oh," said the Doctor, staring at it.

Sally frowned. "It's fuller."

"Huh?"

"It wasn't that filled in when I saw it last," said Sally. "Half the squares were empty when I got a look at it. He didn't even have my name filled in – and now there's only two empty squares."

The Doctor let his finger rest on the lowest left-hand square. "This is him?"

"Yeah," said Sally. "Guess he's coming back, too, he hasn't figured out the last square in this line."

"Or he's going here," said the Doctor, running his hand down the last column. "How's he doing it, running around from dream to dream?"

"He knocked me out," said Sally. "Gave me a bit of a headache. I've still got it."

"Good thing, too, it was the only way we could get this much of his chart," said the Doctor. "That headache is the link from one dream to the next. It doesn't look like he's too sure of some of the entries, at least – see all the question marks?"

"What good will it do? We don't know the answers either," said Sally.

"No," agreed the Doctor. "But you know what we've got? _Me_. I'm not the same Doctor who put him in here, but I'm the closest thing to him around. All I have to do is get there first, and stop him."

"How?" asked Sally.

The Doctor looked at the chart again. "The Master's not the only Lord in this game. Sally—" He turned to her and gripped her shoulders. "If the Master shows up again, whatever you do, _don't let him know anything_. You can't let him figure out that fifth square."

"But I don't know the fifth square."

The Doctor groaned. "Of course you do – just like you knew about bowties not being accurate to this time period, and timey-whimey ball of stuff. You know it, but you don't know you know it. Don't follow his leads. Don't bring up anything new. And whatever you do, _don't blink_."

Sally blinked.

"Seriously, don't," said the Doctor sternly. "Every time you blink you're giving him a clue."

"This all sounds very familiar," said Sally.

"Should hope so, you lived it once," said the Doctor. "I put you here for a reason, Sally. You didn't blink for me before. I'm asking you not to blink for me now. Your life, my life – _everyone's _lives depend on it."

Sally bit her lip. "He told me….he told me that if he breaks out, I can go home."

"It doesn't work that way, Sally," said the Doctor gently.

Sally pulled away. "So I'm stuck here? I can't marry Randolph, Doctor – he's got to go off and father Winston Churchill. It's either death or destruction if I stay here. Maybe both."

"Doesn't work that way," repeated the Doctor. "You're not in real time anymore. You're somewhere else." He grinned. "Hey, maybe _you're_ Winston Churchill's mum, in this timeline."

Sally hiccupped a laugh.

"Trust me, Sally. Can you?"

Sally pushed her fingernails into her palms, and nodded.

"Good."

"Doctor—" But when Sally turned, the Doctor was gone.

The door opened, and for a moment, Sally's heart pounded in her chest. How on earth was she supposed to keep a clue from the Master, when she didn't have a clue what the clue actually _was_?

"I found the peanuts," said Randolph, entering.

"Randy!" Sally flung her arms around his neck. He was startled for a moment, before dropping the bag of peanuts and letting his hands rest on her hips.

"I say," he said. "I should look for peanuts more often."

Sally didn't say anything; she simply buried her nose in his lapel, and hoped the Doctor was right.

* * *

The Doctor lowered Sally to the floor with Rose's help.

"She should wake up soon," he said. He sounded worried, but Rose could tell it wasn't about Sally.

"What's going on?"

"The Master is up to his usual tricks," said the Doctor grimly. "The good news is, so am I. Is he. The other me. But I'm me, so I might be able to stop him."

"Great," said Rose. "How can I help?"

"I need to get into the dreams," said the Doctor. "That's where it's all taking place. Your dreams, his dreams, Sally's dreams, my dreams."

"So you need to sleep," surmised Rose.

"Yes, exactly. But I can't take medication for it – it'll produce the wrong sort of dreaming. He's been going around zapping people with his laser screwdriver, but it gives them a hell of a headache when they wake up, and I need to be alert. I've got to go into a nice, natural sleep pattern."

"You won't fall asleep naturally for at least eight more hours," said Rose.

"I know," said the Doctor, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe if I knock myself unconscious…"

"I've got a better idea," said Rose, just a bit saucily.

"Huh?" The Doctor glanced over. "Rose? Why are you taking off your — oh. _Oh_."

"Who's the clever girlfriend?" asked Rose, dropping her shirt on the floor.

The Doctor didn't answer. Not with words, anyway.

* * *

_If you would like to see the chart that Sally paints for the Doctor, please direct your browser to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_twenty dot jpg_


	21. Chapter 21

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Malcolm Taylor and Erisa Magambo.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

**A/N: **Many apologies regarding the week's delay. I realized at the very last minute that I had misplaced Malcolm's chart for this week, and it took a few days to locate it. I am back on track now and there should be no further delays.

To make up for the delay: a drabble to the first person to figure out the significance of the case number and appendix files on Malcolm's chart. (You will need to follow the link at the bottom of the chapter in order to play.)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Horizontal G**

On the one hand, Malcolm Taylor had an extremely old message staring at him from the inside of a Cyberman torso, telling him not to break the code.

On the other, he had what was supposedly the never-before-broken code in his hands, a hundred years younger than the message, but certainly just as mysterious, if not more so.

How could two individuals in 1851 have possibly known about a code that did not exist until 1970? And moreover, why send a message alerting him to its presence if only to tell him not to solve it?

Malcolm had no idea what to do. Normally, he would have loved this moment, simply to look on the mystery and breathe it in before settling down to solve it.

The message on the Cyberman, however. There was something odd about it.

When Malcolm had no idea what to do, he would ring his mother. It wasn't always the best of solutions, he knew – after all, his mother never exactly made him feel better about whatever had him at a loss – but it was a way to kill the time until he came up with a solution, and it did make his mother feel better. That was something.

"Malcolm, did you see the telly?" his mother demanded.

The question, as it was not about his lack of girlfriends, his lack of children, or his flat above the curry take-away, took Malcolm by surprise. "No, Mam."

"There was a spaceship above London. It was on the news! Fiona Bruce on News at Ten said straight out, a spaceship over London. Did you see it?"

"Mam, it was gone before I was back in London."

"I thought you would have seen it," she said. She sounded disappointed; Malcolm had no doubt that it was added to the list. "Do you think it was the Americans?"

"The Americans are capable of building a space ship?"

"Well, why not?" asked his mother. "They've got telly, don't they?"

"Building tellies and building space ships are two entirely different things," said Malcolm. "And even if the Americans _did_ build a space ship, I don't think they'd fly it over here just to give us a buzz."

"Canadians, then," said his mother. "It had to be Canadians."

Malcolm rubbed his eyes, and when he drew his hand away, his gaze fell on the code on the table.

_Sycorax_.

"Sycorax," he said, without thinking.

"Eh?" asked his mother. "Is that in Canada?"

"Not exactly," said Malcolm. His mind began ticking away. Sycorax in the sky, Sycorax on the code….

"Can't trust Canadians," said his mother darkly. "I knew a Canadian once. In the war. He gave me a chocolate biscuit."

It was an old story. How this translated into not trusting Canadians, Malcolm had never understood. Perhaps the stumbling toddler that would eventually become his mother had thought the chocolate biscuit was a token of something other than a soldier being kind to a local child. Perhaps the child thought the biscuit marked the beginnings of a new life across the ocean in a land flowing not with milk and honey, but with chocolate biscuits and orange juice and soft rain in the summer, where sons never lived above curry take-aways and always married good, respectable girls before churning out good, respectable grandchildren…

"Malcolm!" shouted his mother over the phone. "Are you listening to me?"

Or maybe she just hadn't liked chocolate biscuits.

"Yes, mam," sighed Malcolm.

"Honestly, I talk and talk and talk and it's like talking to a brick wall, you're always off dreaming about one thing or another," grumbled his mother. "And it's never even a _girl_, you're fantasizing yourself solving some ridiculous theorem or some such thing."

_Fantasies_.

"Not exactly, mam," said Malcolm, eyes lighting on the code. His brain began ticking even faster.

"Oh, look at the time," said his mother. "I'm late for bingo. Are you coming on Sunday?"

Something in Malcolm's brain clicked. He stared at the code in front of him.

"Bingo?"

"Yes, I go every Thursday, you know that. First person to win last week, I got ten pounds."

_First person_.

"Congratulations?" said Malcolm, unable to ignore the ticking in his head.

"Congratulations nothing, first person never wins the good things," complained his mother. "Last winner, they win a Kitchen-Aid. Imagine that."

Malcolm couldn't.

"See you Sunday, Malcolm, ta!"

His mother rang off. Malcolm set the phone down on the table, and stared at the code.

Not a code. _A bingo card_.

The clicking in his brain turned into a series of bells, and for a moment, Malcolm felt the frantic rush of nearly solving a mystery settle into the quiet afterglow of having solved it, every mismatched piece finding its partner and settling into place.

Malcolm studied the code again. Twenty-five squares, eight filled in, one clearly indicating that it was meant for him and him alone. "YOU GO HERE", and Malcolm, having put himself there, knew it to be true.

Malcolm could barely speak for excitement. Magambo might believe the Doctor could be the intended recipient, and Malcolm had little doubt that he was involved in its origin. But there could be no doubt that Malcolm belonged in his square. It made too much sense, particularly if what he was holding was a bingo card.

If Malcolm was a game of Bingo – then clearly he had to fill in the squares along his lines. Further, the appearance of the Cyberman was simply too coincidental to be anything _but_ part of the code, particularly since the code itself came to him in a file about a robot gone mad. Carefully, with only a slight tremor in his hand, he wrote "Robots" into the blank space.

After some deliberation (and a quick glance at the still-open file on the table), he added "_Giant" _in front.

The sense of accomplishment was euphoric. A lesser man might have gone running up and down the empty halls of U.N.I.T.; Malcolm simply remained in his chair and filled his lungs to bursting, which was just as much a celebration as anything else. Congratulations, Mr. Taylor, we are very impressed with your results, how we could have ever conceived of divining the answers ourselves. Here, Pam, give Mr. Taylor another flute of champagne…

The imaginary champagne flute fell to the floor with a crash, however, when Malcolm looked at the card again.

He had forgotten about the other line. He wasn't done yet – the code might be closer to solved than it had been in the previous 35 years, but it wasn't there yet.

Torchwood. Zombies, or pickles. And himself.

Malcolm had never actually _dealt_ with Torchwood before. As far as he knew, their scientific advisors were little more than quacks, high school chemistry teachers who had illusions of being greater than the sum of their parts. Malcolm wasn't given to parroting Magambo's opinions, but he had heard her derisive tones regarding the recent fiasco committed by Torchwood which resulted in the Sycorax ship raining ash over southern England.

He wondered if perhaps the zombies might _be_ the scientific advisors. It would certainly make sense.

Even if he had no such wish to _meet_ one.

There was a greater need present, however. The mysterious Lynda, who had used the Cyberman torso to get a message to Malcolm, clearly would need an answer. (The fact that she had requested him _not_ to do what he had just begun doing did not figure into the equation, just yet.) Lynda also intersected with Torchwood at one point: and therefore, Torchwood would be the medium to delivering his reply.

Even if it meant meeting a zombie.

Malcolm hoped the square rightly belonged to pickles.

It took several minutes of searching to find a phone number for Torchwood. They were not listed in the phone book, they weren't exactly online, nor were they in the U.N.I.T. directory. Malcolm finally found what he hoped was a current number scrawled on the bottom of the pencil drawer in his never-used desk. Half the reason it was never used was because of the piles of papers, cords, notebooks, failed experiments, broken beakers, unwashed tea cups (sometimes half-full of tea), discarded tea bags, rather questionable spoons, and other bits of detritus, most of which fell on top of Malcolm as he dialed the phone. We gather here to mourn Malcolm Taylor, esteemed U.N.I.T. scientific advisor, who perished moments after nearly solving the Code, which has confounded the brightest minds U.N.I.T. had to offer for the previous thirty-five years. Mr. Taylor was killed in his laboratory under a heaping pile of rubbish left for him by the previous occupants of his position. Mourners are allowed one piece of refuse as a remembrance and cautionary tale.

"Torchwood," said the man on the other end of the line.

"I need to speak to one of your operatives," said Malcolm quickly, trying to untangle the computer wires from his legs. "Her name is Lynda."

"Lynda what?"

Malcolm gave up on the wires, and lay on the cold tile floor. It wasn't as though anyone could _see_ him, at least. "No idea. But she spells her name with a Y, there can't be too many of them."

"Look, mate," said the operator patiently, "I need a first and last name in order to look someone up."

"I don't _have_ a last name, but it's vitally important that I get a message to her. The very fabric of the universe could depend on it."

"If it's only _could_, you could always try calling back in the morning with a last name."

"She may have been involved with the Sycorax incident," said Malcolm.

There was a pause at the other end, and then a distinct click that was not the call being cut off. "What Sycorax?" asked the man, entirely too innocent. Malcolm wondered if the conversation was being recorded.

"Right, fine," said Malcolm, growing a bit cross. "Look, do you have any zombies on staff?"

Silence.

"Or an influx of pickles in your cafeteria?"

There was an exasperated sigh from the other end. "It's a federal offense to prank call a government institution, mate," snapped the Torchwood operator.

"I _am_ a government institution!" protested Malcolm.

"_In_ one, sure. It's called _Bedlam_."

"No, I—"

But the operator had hung up on him. Malcolm sputtered at the telephone, fought the cables over his legs for a moment, and gave up.

No Lynda at Torchwood. No zombies or pickles either. Malcolm wondered if there was more to the message on the Cyberman's torso – perhaps he had missed something. It had never happened before, of course—

No. It _had_. Martin Emery had seen something on the table, long before the Cyberman's torso had revealed its hidden message. Perhaps if Martin could tell Malcolm what it was….

Malcolm was so busy attempting to reach the U.N.I.T. phone directory, he didn't hear the knock on the door.

"Professor Taylor?"

Malcolm sat up, scattering half a dozen papers, three apple cores, a plethora of computer cables, and the telephone. "Ah – yes?"

"What are you doing down there?" asked Captain Erisa Magambo.

"Thinking," said Malcolm, which was true. "I need to ring someone."

"Have you solved the code, Mr. Taylor?"

"Partially," said Malcolm, and wriggled his way out from under the desk. "I believe I know who may have the last piece of information I need, but I can't reach my directory…."

"You _could_ ring the U.N.I.T. operator," said Magambo tersely.

"Ah, yes," said Malcolm, and wiped a bit of coffee ground from his glasses. "I could. Thank you."

The U.N.I.T. operator answered almost immediately. "Yes, Mr. Taylor?"

"I need Martin Emery's home phone number, please."

"One moment," said the operator. Malcolm spent the moment untangling his legs.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the operator. "I do not have a listing for a Martin Emery."

Malcolm frowned. "Well, then give me his mobile."

"No, sir, I'm sorry. There's no Martin Emery listed in the directory."

Malcolm kicked off a pile of papers soaked in four-week-old tea. "But that's absurd. He works as a scientific analyst."

"I'll check again," said the operator, but when she returned, she sounded just as apologetic as before. "I'm sorry, sir – there's no one called Martin Emery anywhere in U.N.I.T. I've also cross-checked other U.N.I.T. bases around the world: there are no scientists by that name, anywhere."

Malcolm swallowed. "Ah."

"Could you have the name wrong, sir?"

"No, thank you," said Malcolm, his voice somewhat high. "I'll just recheck my notes."

"Yes, sir."

Malcolm hung up the phone and looked up at Magambo. "He doesn't exist. Martin Emery doesn't exist."

"Who?" asked Magambo.

"The man who saw what wasn't there – isn't there," said Malcolm, and he sprang to his feet and went to the table. He placed his palms flat on the surface and stared at the interior of the Cyberman's torso. "He came in this morning, saw something on the table, which caused me to realize the temperature fluctuation, and this evening, as he was leaving, he pointed out the file with the code in it – and the operator says he doesn't work here at all."

"Are you telling me we have had a security breach?" Magambo's voice went up several octaves.

"I _remember_ him working here," insisted Malcolm. "I…" Malcolm blinked. "I think he worked here. In the laboratory next door—"

Magambo gave Malcolm a concerned, stern look. "Mr. Taylor - there _is_ no laboratory next door. Yours is the only laboratory on this level."

Malcolm stared at her.

"Perhaps you need a vacation," said Magambo. "Dreaming about imaginary co-workers is not a very good sign, particularly in a scientific advisor."

"Dream," repeated Malcolm. "Oh. Yes. Yes. _Yes_."

And without any warning whatsoever – nor any prior thought, which would certainly have given Malcolm reason enough not to do what he was about to do…Malcolm reached over, kissed Erisa Magambo squarely on the lips, and ran out of the laboratory.

"Mr. Taylor!" shouted Magambo, flummoxed, but not so much that she didn't storm out of the laboratory after him.

"I _dreamed_ him," Malcolm shouted over his shoulder. "Don't you see? If he was able to tell me where to find the code, and how to find the code – he is _part_ of the code. And if he's part of the code – I need to get to sleep!"

"Mr. Taylor!" repeated Magambo. "Your laboratory—"

Malcolm raced back, pulled Magambo through the door and into the corridor, slammed his hand on the panel to turn off the lights, and locked the door so quickly, it was barely closed before it latched.

"Not a minute to lose," he said, excited. "I'll tell you all about it in the morning!"

Malcolm Taylor had never in his entire life been so excited to go to sleep.

* * *

_If you would like to see the chart Malcolm has altered (and attempt to win a free drabble for yourself), please direct your browsers to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_twentyone dot jpg_


	22. Chapter 22

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest stars are Ten2, Lynda Moss and Jack Harkness.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-two: Horizontal B and Diagonal Left**

Amy Pond touched the transporter in her pocket, just to make sure the Master hadn't used it.

K-9 would return. Otherwise, there wasn't a chance she'd find Lucas on her own.

"Will it crush my hair?" Amy asked hopefully, looking at the parka the pilot offered her.

"No, Lady. They're designed very well."

"Bollocks," said Amy, and took the parka anyway. She flung the parka over her hair, as if sheer force could destroy the carefully constructed arrangement, and stormed off of the ship and into the icy weather outside.

The pilot waited by the door, watching as his passenger fell into the snow, pulled herself back up, and then promptly fell the other way. There wasn't much doubt that she would refuse any offers of assistance, so he didn't worry about it.

He liked her. She had spirit. Small wonder she was the new companion.

The sound of wheels on a raised metal floorboard alerted him to K-9's return. Amy Pond was a full kilometer away already – and besides, the pilot figured, it wasn't as though she'd recognize _his_ face. He took off his helmet.

"Hello, K-9," said the metacrisis half-human Doctor.

"Master," said K-9, sounding very pleased with himself. "I had speculated that I might intersect with you at some point in this game."

"Well, there's a reason I'm on this track," said the Doctor. "So he's figured it out, has he?"

The Doctor didn't have to tell K-9 who he meant. "He is moving rapidly. I have reason to believe that he has only three squares left to discern. One of these squares is a corner square."

Amy Pond fell into another bank of snow, this one so deep that neither K-9 nor the Doctor could see her. The Doctor wondered if he should go to her rescue – and then an angry stream of profanity in a thick Scottish brogue filled the air. The Doctor rested back against the door frame.

"That's more or less what Sally painted," he told K-9. "Funny that one of the open squares is a corner. I'd think he would have been able to set those straight off."

"This particular corner is not within the Master's realm of expertise," explained K-9. "That is, it is something the Master does not expect to find, and having found it, will reject."

"Don't suppose you could give us a hint?" prodded the Doctor.

K-9's antenna's whirred, and a moment later, produced a carbon copy of Sally's painting from a slot just under his chin.

"Gift horses and mouths and all that," said the Doctor reasonably, tearing off the strip of paper. "Let's see. Jack and Lynda are on the same trajectory as that open square. Don't suppose you could help me out with that? Get a message to them?"

K-9's tail swirled in circles. "Affirmative, Master," he said, sounding very pleased indeed. "I could arrange for a vocal relay to reach them for you, if you would care to leave them a message in that form. I may also be able to insert you into another storyline, through Torchwood's interfaces, although that will take some time to arrange."

"She won't need you for a while, will she?" the Doctor asked, scanning the horizon for Amy, now freed from her snowy prison – only to fall back into a prison on the opposite side of the bank. "Guess not," said the Doctor. "Well, K-9 – time to make a few phone calls. Would it be too much if I said they're my only hope? Yes, probably. At least I'm not wearing cinnamon buns on my head, eh?"

* * *

Jack Harkness closed his eyes, and died.

When he opened them again a few minutes later, Lynda Moss sat cross-legged next to him, the phone in her lap, her eyes focused squarely on him.

Jack coughed once.

"Hi," Lynda managed to choke out.

"Told you so," said Jack.

* * *

"Okay," said Lynda, some hours later. She was sitting in her chair, legs arranged in some kind of knot, while she poked in a Chinese take-away box with her chopsticks. Half a dozen additional boxes, the contents of which were in various stages of having been eaten, were scattered on her desk. Jack sat across from her, silently chewing on the same bite of pork fried rice that he'd started five minutes before. "So you were on the Game Station, and the Daleks killed you. And then you woke up."

Jack swallowed what was left of the rice. "You make it sound like a dream."

"How do you know it wasn't?" challenged Lynda. "That guy who was here – the Master, you called him? He took you into one of your dreams, you said, and it was exactly as real as us sitting here now."

"It wasn't a dream," said Jack firmly. "I _was_ on the Game Station. There's a whole lot of Top Secret files hidden behind red tape somewhere to prove that. And besides—"

"I know," said Lynda quickly. She tapped her chopsticks against the box. "Jack…you. You were _dead_."

"Yeah," said Jack quietly. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be – I mean—" Lynda sighed. "You dumped a lot on me here, Jack. You're immortal, you're from a different century, you're alien—"

"I'm as human as you are," said Jack.

"You're not from Earth," challenged Lynda. "By definition, you're alien – even if you're a human. And you're immortal, that's a pretty big tick in the alien column."

"That's a new thing," said Jack.

"Oh?" asked Lynda dryly. "Did you ever die and stay dead _before _the Game Station?"

"Well—"

"Then how do you know?"

Jack opened his mouth, couldn't say anything, and started to chew another mouthful of fried rice instead.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with all this information," said Lynda.

Jack chewed.

"My partner is an immortal time-traveling sort-of human," said Lynda.

Jack chewed.

"Last year, when you had the flu and you recovered twice as fast as everyone else, did you kill yourself to get rid of it?" asked Lynda suspiciously.

Jack chewed.

"Why did you choose _today_ to tell me?"

Jack swallowed.

"I don't know," he said. "It just…seeing the TARDIS footprint. That odd series of messages on the voicebox. Do you know – you're the first person I've told about not staying dead? I made up some stupid story about the Daleks grazing me – the guys who found me believed it, of course. What did they know from Daleks? Not even the medical doctors know. Not that I've ever let them really examine me – what if they see something under my skin? I don't want to be poked and prodded and killed over and over for medical science."

Lynda gave a last poke with her chopsticks, before she connected the action with what Jack was saying and tossed the box, chopsticks and all, onto the desk. "I could tell them. Run right out there and sell the story to the mags."

"But you won't," said Jack calmly. "I know you. You wouldn't do that to a friend."

"Friends don't lie to each other."

"I'm not lying to you now. I wasn't before, either – I just…wasn't being entirely truthful."

"Semantics," said Lynda. She pulled her knees up. "What happens when you die?"

Jack closed his eyes. "Nothing."

Lynda rested her chin on her knees.

"I could tell you something pretty," continued Jack. "But truth is – nothing. Half the time I don't even remember being dead."

Lynda pressed her eyes into her kneecaps for a moment, until she could see colored spheres dancing against the black. She looked up again, blinking into the light as the pressure subsided. "So what do you think the messages meant? On the voiceboxes."

It wasn't forgiveness or acceptance or anything, except a plea to return to work. To return to a sense of normalcy. Jack knew it, just as Lynda knew he would.

"It wasn't the Doctor talking," said Jack, as he jumped up and went to Lynda's machine. "I don't recognize the voice. But he's talking about other people, and one of them could _be_ the Doctor."

"Or the Master," said Lynda. "You said the Master was using you to get information from your dreams. Maybe that's what the caller is talking about – keeping the information away from him."

"If that's true," said Jack thoughtfully, "he didn't get everything he came for. He was going to shove me into a second dream when you opened the door."

"Why would _that_ stop him?" scoffed Lynda. "If I'm part of it – wouldn't he want to interrogate me too?"

"Maybe that _is_ what stopped him," said Jack. "Maybe he can't interrogate you for some reason. Whatever he did – it gave me a hell of a headache."

Lynda frowned. "You can't die. You think – those interrogations would have killed me?"

"If you're part of the game, he can't risk killing you without destroying his chance to get out," reasoned Jack. "It makes sense to me."

"So he disables me and continues on with you," said Lynda. "He doesn't have to kill me. I think there's another reason – he left right before I came in, and you said he left in a hurry. I don't think he wanted me to see him at all."

There was a click from the laptop, and the last message left from the mysterious caller began to play. "I know I've gone on for far too long, and there's every chance you're not listening any longer, but I hope you are, because you both are my last hope. Okay, not my last _last_ hope, but considering the circumstances, I had to say it. You would say it in my shoes. Boots. Anyway. Don't let on to that last square. Don't let him know what's on that last square. Do whatever you can to keep that last square to yourselves. Top secret, password protected, life-or-death matter here. Not that _I_ know what's there, but if you do, don't let on. Oh, and another thing—"

There was a click, and the message was over.

"Last square?" echoed Lynda.

"Information," said Jack grimly. "It sounds to me like there's information he meant to get that he didn't get."

"You said that," said Lynda, but she didn't sound entirely confident.

"That was information from _me_, from whatever it was I was dreaming. I don't think that's what the caller is talking about, because he left messages on both my voicebox and yours. I think the Master still needs something from both of us."

"But…" Lynda's voice failed her.

"I think the Master's coming back," said Jack grimly.


	23. Chapter 23

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is Malcolm Taylor.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

**A/N:** I'm happy to announce that Torchgirl42 and x-Avarice-x correctly guessed the meanings of the U.N.I.T. case file and Appendix numbers, and have won themselves a drabble each. Congratulations! (You can read their responses in the reviews.)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Vertical O**

It had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not Malcolm Taylor liked or disliked working for Torchwood. He left academia, he needed a job, Torchwood Three in Cardiff offered him the most competitive salary and benefits package. If he would have rather lived a bit further away from his mother, allowing him the ability to skip regular Sunday afternoon tea, then that would have to come later, when Malcolm had additional experience outside of university, an admittedly insular environment that did not lend itself to regular work-day relations.

Of course, working for Torchwood was a bit on the insular side as well, not to mention all-consuming and fantastically unusual. Malcolm found his coworkers on the whole to be jovial types who, when not on a specific case, were highly likely to be found rooting around his medical instruments to find a pencil, heating their soup on his Bunsen burner, and using his examining table as a comfortable place for a pizza lunch or a snooze.

(Malcolm hoped it was only used for snoozing. He had once found a pair of nondescript undergarments behind the beakers in the back cabinet. Apart from not wanting to know how the undergarments came to rest there, he didn't want to know what happened after they were set in such an odd location.)

Today, however, Malcolm woke up with a headache. It might have had something to do with falling asleep at his desk, not something Malcolm did on a regular basis, but it happened with enough frequency that when the office assistant came to unlock the doors, she was never overly surprised to see him there.

"Wotcha, Malcolm," said Pam cheerfully. "Aren't you lucky, I have an extra coffee."

"Ah. Oh. Thank you," said Malcolm, fumbling for his glasses, which had lodged themselves under his nose. "Pam."

Pam smiled at him, her teeth flashing whitely in the dim lighting. She handed him one of the Styrofoam cups. "No milk or sugar, but it's piping hot. Did you finish whatever it was that kept you here?"

"I don't remember," said Malcolm. He wrapped his hands around the cup, and almost instantly dropped it onto the desk. Even through the Styrofoam, the cup was burning hot. Luckily, it didn't have far to fall, and only a little spilled out from the already open lid, splattering onto his papers spread on the desk.

"Oh!" said Pam, and she pulled a wad of napkins from her pocket. "Good thing for you Analissa isn't here any longer. She'd have your head for spilling a drop of anything. Hated messes, Analissa did."

"What happened to her?" asked Malcolm absently. He blotted at the papers with the napkins. He wasn't sure he was doing more harm than good. His headache seemed to agree; his brain throbbed every time his hand touched the paper.

"Committed," whispered Pam, and tapped her head with a significant look. "_Re-_committed, actually, I hear she was in once before but they thought she was cured. I hear she's doing very well now. She sends me a very lovely beaded bracelet every now and then."

"Ah," said Malcolm, not entirely sure how to respond to this revelation.

"That's better," said Pam. "Oh, there's the phone, I'll just go answer it. Might want to wash up a titch before anyone else comes in."

It wasn't until he looked in the mirror in the loo that Malcolm saw the sharp line of ink across his cheek. He groaned, and rubbed at it furiously with the soap from the dispenser. The ink went away, but the entire side of his face was now bright pink.

There was a banging on the door. Malcolm winced as his head pounded in response. "Mr. Taylor!" shouted Yvonne Hartman, his supervisor. "Are you coming to our morning meeting?"

"Yes, yes," Malcolm called back, and quickly dried his hands. He took a last glance in the mirror, frowned at his reflection, and headed to the conference table in the center of main room.

One of the things Malcolm rather liked about Torchwood was the sense of community. It reminded him a bit of his scholastic days, particularly the early ones when everyone sat together in a great circle, worked through problems together, and were generally friendly and considerate, despite some being rather more intelligent than others. Torchwood was arranged in much the same manner: a single large room, with a central conference table around which they all could sit and discuss the various matters that concerned them, and stemming off of that space, individual pods or workspaces where they could sit quietly and do their various individual jobs. Malcolm had been told that going outside of academia, he would be locked in a laboratory in the basement of some building, nevermore to see sunlight except on rare occasions, with his projects brought to him mysteriously and taken away in the same manner, and certainly never allowed to go into the field on assignment.

This was not the case with Torchwood. Malcolm found the camaraderie rather…exhilarating. Even if his coworkers sometimes annoyed him with their constant pestering and questions and _presence_.

Not Pam, though. Malcolm never minded Pam.

Not that he would ever, ever tell her that.

Malcolm was the last person to reach the table. Pam, sitting in her usual seat with a notepad and paper, smiled at him. Malcolm tried to smile back, and was able to sit properly for exactly two seconds before falling off his chair.

"All right, Malcolm?" asked Yvonne without sounding particularly interested in the answer.

"Yes," said Malcolm from the floor. At least his headache had company now, thought Malcolm as he considered his wounded pride. Pam wouldn't be laughing at him, would she? Perhaps he ought to stay on the floor.

"Right then, we'll start. Bernard, there was a Weevil call-in last night?"

"Two on the docks," said Bernard. "Rounded up one, the other sustained an injury but escaped. Followed it clear to Penarth, but lost it."

"Penarth?" asked Trish. She sounded alarmed – not entirely unusual for Trish. "There were reports this morning from Penarth on the radio. Some kind of something in one of the abandoned storefronts."

"The Weevil?" asked Martin.

"No details, but I suppose it could be," said Trish. "Only – Weevils attack. These weren't attacking so much as…menacing. And there wasn't any mention of anything odd about their appearance."

"We should look into it," said Yvonne briskly. "Mr. Taylor—"

Malcolm sat up. "Yes?"

"Do you have anything pressing today?"

"I _had_ hoped to finish the analysis of the Rift energy modulation," said Malcolm. He did not look in Pam's direction, where she was certain to be purple with contained laughter.

"Right," said Yvonne. "Much more important. As I don't think we'll be needing your expertise, we'll leave you here, shall we?"

"Righty-ho," said Malcolm, and laid back down on the floor while the team filed out past him.

Bernard stopped at his toes.

"Want a hand?" he offered.

"Thanks," said Malcolm.

Bernard applauded.

"Right," said Malcolm dryly, and Bernard reached down to help him up.

"Pam looked very concerned about you, mate," Bernard told him.

"Pam? Hmm? What are you talking about? I don't know what you're saying," said Malcolm, brushing off his trousers.

"You know, dating within the team isn't exactly frowned on," said Bernard.

"I have relays to check," said Malcolm, and stormed back to his medical station, where he intended to bury himself in the research he'd been compiling for the previous week. It was tedious, time-consuming, all-important work, and Malcolm enjoyed every minute of it, working toward some sort of conclusion that would bring him accolades, glory, a congratulatory note from Torchwood Headquarters, and possibly a smile and admiring glance from Pam, who was surely being wooed and serenaded by the dashing men in Penarth even then.

Instead, he was confronted by the still damply sticky mess on his desk. With a sigh, Malcolm went to fetch a wet cloth to wipe up the remains of coffee. When he returned, the team had already departed for Penarth.

Except for Pam, who sat on his desk, studying a coffee-stained piece of paper.

"What's this?" she asked.

Malcolm snatched it back from her. His headache, which had momentarily stopped bothering him, flared back again. "It's nothing, it's equations, it's far too complex—"

"It looked like a half-filled out bingo card," said Pam archly.

Malcolm looked down at the paper, and fixed his glasses. "Ah…it is. A half-filled out bingo card."

"Of course, I probably wouldn't understand bingo," said Pam, but she didn't sound terribly upset. A little upset. Maybe.

"I'm sorry, I thought it was mine," said Malcolm, and tried to hand it back to her, but she didn't take it.

"It _is_ yours," said Pam. "It was on your desk, and your name is on it. I was going to wipe up the coffee, and I found it."

Malcolm frowned. "I don't remember seeing this before."

Pam took the paper carefully from him, and laid it out on the examining table. "Look – you're here, on the right-hand side. And I think that's your handwriting."

Malcolm frowned as he read it. Something about it…something was familiar. Something was…no longer pounding in his head. And with the disappearance of the headache, the bingo card and its contents became clear.

"Sycorax," he said, reading. "I know that word."

"It sounds like a muscle or something," said Pam. "The thigh bone's connected to the Sycorax."

"No – I mean, yes, it does sound like that," said Malcolm, stumbling over himself in growing excitement. "But – no. They're an alien race. Hold on—"

Malcolm turned to his computer and quickly began typing. "Look," he said, turning the monitor so that Pam could see it. She leaned over his shoulder, which would have been very nice if her hair hadn't brushed his shoulder. He couldn't think when her hair brushed over his shoulder. "I – ah –" Malcolm took a step to the side and was able to continue. "The Sycorax were the ones flying that ship Christmas last, do you remember?"

"Not really," said Pam. "I was one of the people on the rooftop."

"Well," said Malcolm, fumbling a little. "There you are. Sycorax."

"You remembered, though?"

"No," said Malcolm, and he straightened. "I mean – yes, but they've been popping up lately. In a dream of mine. Not them precisely, just the memory of the ship."

"Odd thing to dream about," said Pam.

"I'm not dreaming _about_ them, they're just there," said Malcolm. "The odd thing – so are these other squares. Fantasies, and giant robots, and being the first person to do something."

"It's a bingo card of dreams?" said Pam. She leaned over the card until her nose was nearly touching it. "Whose dreams? It can't be yours, or you'd be all over it. And you're only in one square."

Malcolm paused to look at the card. "This Lynda person, maybe? Only she wouldn't access all the dreams, would she?"

"I'd hope you're not dreaming of a Lynda," said Pam, and blushed.

Malcolm blinked.

"Anyway," continued Pam in a rush, "if that's a dream, then is this line here a dream, too?" She traced her finger along the vertical line: Torchwood, zombies/pickles, Malcolm. "What other fantastical acts are you committing in your dreams, Malcolm?"

"Me?" squeaked Malcolm, and blushed.

Pam blinked.

"Nothing," said Malcolm quickly. "Nothing that I remember. Nothing nothing nothing nothing."

He and Pam might both have burst into flames, given the redness of their respective faces, had there not been a crash from the entrance to the workspace.

"Sorry about that," said Martin from behind the pile of recycling boxes which had tumbled to the ground. "Hope that 'nothing' isn't whatever research you're researching for Noble Leadress, Malcolm, she's rather expecting something, I'd say."

"Didn't you go to Penarth, Martin?" asked Pam.

"Yes, but the police finally called on Yvonne's mobile. It's zombies, not Weevils," said Martin. "I have a thing with zombies, always committing the same ridiculous brain-eating bit, and I rather like my brain, so I came back here to hold the fort and see what you two were up to." He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels.

Malcolm turned to stare at Pam, who was in turn staring at Malcolm.

"_Zombies_," they both said together, and knocked their heads together in an effort to look at the card on the examining table.

Martin frowned. "Oh, I said that, didn't I? I should have known better."

"It's not a dream at all," said Pam, rubbing her head. "Malcolm – look. It's _real_, this line is _real_. You work for Torchwood, and there are zombies, and I'll bet you ten quid there's not a pickle anywhere to be found."

"There are two other squares," said Malcolm. His head was beginning to throb lightly again. He rubbed it absently. "What goes in the two other squares?"

Martin sighed with relief. "Well, that's true. Two other squares. No chance you'll discover those." He sat down on Martin's chair and propped his feet up on the desk. "Malcolm, do you have anything to eat in here? I'm feeling a teensy bit peckish."

"It could be anything," said Pam.

"Zombies don't happen every day," said Malcolm. "But Torchwood does. I think the two empty squares are going to reflect that. Something typical – something unusual."

Pam looked around the room. "You slept here last night. That's not exactly usual."

Martin began rifling through Malcolm's drawers in the pursuit of something edible.

Malcolm's head throbbed. "I don't think that's it," he said slowly. The throbbing did not get any worse, but neither did it get better.

"I could find you a camp bed," said Pam thoughtfully. "For the next time you sleep here instead of at home."

"It's all right, I don't mind," said Malcolm.

"Pretzels!" said Martin happily. "Those will do nicely." He popped the bag open and began to munch, watching Malcolm and Pam as if they were a movie on the screen.

"It wouldn't be any trouble. I don't like the thought of you sleeping in that chair, you'll end up breaking your back one of these days."

"No, really, it's quite comfortable," insisted Malcolm. He could feel the blush rising again, along with the headache.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Pam firmly. "Unless you're committed to having back surgery in a year's time."

The pounding in Malcolm's head stopped for a brief, happy moment.

"Say that again," he said.

Pam gave him an odd look. "Back surgery?"

"Before that!"

"You're committed to—"

The pounding ceased again, and Malcolm let out a whoop. "Committed!" he said excitedly. "That's it – the word committed. We've committed and recommitted and committed again, you and me and Analissa and how many times in a day can you actually find a reason to _say_ that bloody word and _you're_ the one who found it, Pam!"

And without a pause, Malcolm did a very odd thing indeed.

He leaned over the examining table and kissed her.

Considering the awkward position of the kissing couple, with a metal examination table wedged between them, it was quite an achievement that the kiss lasted longer than a simple peck on the lips. By the time they parted, their blushes had sprung anew, except now they had lips to match.

"Oh," said Pam, looking at Malcolm as though she had never quite seen him before.

"Oh," said Malcolm, looking at Pam as if he had wanted to do so his entire life and only just now realized it.

"Oh," said Martin, watching from the desk chair, with a bag of now-forgotten pretzels in his hand. "Well. That complicates things."

Malcolm heard Martin for the first time, and turned to look at him. "Martin?"

"That's me," said Martin. "Yup. Martin Emery. Martino. You owe me five farthings say the bells of Saint Martin's. Etcetera."

"What do you mean, you shouldn't have said anything about the zombies?"

"Huh?" Martin blinked.

"When you came in," said Malcolm. "You told us about the zombies, and then said you shouldn't have said it. Why?"

"No reason," said Martin. "Pretzel?"

"And then just now, you said we complicated things," said Malcolm. "What things? Why would we complicate anything?"

"It's not you," said Martin. "It's what your kiss represented."

Malcolm looked sideways at Pam, who looked sideways at him.

"The fifth square?" guessed Pam.

"Oh, you're clever," said Martin, a bit glumly. "I can see why he likes you."

Malcolm looked down at the bingo card. "One thing usual, one thing not," he said slowly. "Kissing – that's unusual for me."

"Me too," said Pam softly.

"But there's something that's been here every day," continued Malcolm, and wrote it on the paper. Pam read the single word, and broke into a smile.

"Oh," she said. "I'd like that."

Martin came over and peeked. "Hmm," he said. "Interesting. You put it in the corner. Powerful square in bingo, the corner."

"Yes," said Malcolm. "I think it deserves to go there, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," said Martin. "Indeed, I do. It's only—"

"It complicates things," Malcolm finished for him, and Martin nodded.

"Your head still pounding, Malcolm?" Martin asked casually.

"Ah – yes," said Malcolm. "How did you—"

"Hold on," said Martin, and he reached up and touched Malcolm's temples with the tips of his fingers, and closed his eyes. "Ah. Well, that's one way of doing it. And there we are."

Martin stepped back. Malcolm touched his head gingerly. "My headache's not quite gone."

"I should hope not," said Martin, quite insulted. "You still have to get that message to Lynda."

"Message?" asked Pam.

Martin nodded his head to the computer. "Just type it all up into Records when you're done. Include a little chart of your bingo card there, it'll turn up in the right spot when needed. I wouldn't worry about it too much. Once you've done that, I suspect Malcolm's head will go right as rain."

Malcolm was still blinking. "You – Martin – you're in my dream. The one where I'm working for U.N.I.T."

"Yes, I was," said Martin, pleased now.

"But – you weren't in my dream before you touched my head," said Malcolm, somewhat confused.

"No, I wasn't," said Martin.

"But – I only knew about the bingo card because you _were_ in my dream. If you _weren't_ in my dream, how did I know about the bingo card…"

Martin clapped Malcolm on the back. "Do me a favor, don't think about it too hard. You've still got that headache. Chalk it up to timey-whimey, wibbly-wobbley, accept it and move on."

Pam was already at the computer, typing in the card.

"I should probably go now," said Martin. "Bit of a mess to clean up. Thanks for showing me that last square, Malcolm. You're a good sort. I'm glad you were here."

"Ah – thank you?" said Malcolm, a bit confused. He didn't like being confused. It smelled wrong.

"Take care of him, Pam," said Martin.

"Righty-ho," said Pam, still typing.

Malcolm watched her for a moment. Her ponytail bobbed along as she typed furiously on the computer. He wondered why she was working so quickly.

"There," she said finally, satisfied, and over her shoulder, Malcolm could see the file saving to Records, where it would be stored permanently. "That's done. Your headache?"

"Gone," said Malcolm.

"And Martin?"

Malcolm looked over his shoulder. "Also gone. Odd. I didn't hear him go."

"Never mind Martin," said Pam, and kissed him.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what Malcolm's revised chart looks like, please direct your browser to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_twentythree dot jpg_

_Think you know what that last square reads? Guess correctly, and win a drabble from me. _


	24. Chapter 24

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is Lynda Moss.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Diagonal Right**

The Time Lords in the Council Room had moved on to beer pong. Well, everyone except Romana, who was sitting to the side, watching and tapping her foot.

"Seriously?" said the Master when he saw them.

"You should have seen Rassilon play," Romana told him. "They'd all be on the floor like louts and he'd be cool and sober as a cucumber."

"So just as well for them that he's dead," said the Master.

"Hence why they're playing again."

The Master leaned against the wall and watched as the ping pong ball sailed across the conference table, bounced against the rim of a cup, and rolled away into the corner while half of the Time Lords cheered, including the one who had thrown the ball and who was now required to drink.

"This is not a game I would have expected," said the Master.

"You should have been here the week they played Buzkashi." Romana sounded amused. "Anyway, don't you have a code to break?"

"Yeah," said the Master. He didn't move.

Romana leaned over and pulled the roll of papers from his back pocket. The Master made a half-hearted grab, shrugged, and went back to watching beer pong.

"You're very nearly done," she said.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I would have thought you'd be more excited." Romana frowned. "Star Wars and Dickens?"

"The stories had characters from them sort of worked in," said the Master, his eyes squarely on the ping pong ball.

"Ah, a crossover, sneaky," said Romana.

"Hmm?"

"That's what it's called, when you have elements of one story meshed with another," explained Romana. "I did learn a few things while I traveled with the Doctor, you know. He was particularly fond of putting Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica together. Always complaining that Star Trek didn't have enough killer robots."

The Master took back the papers, half-heartedly made the correction, and stuffed them back in his pocket.

"Well?" said Romana.

"What?"

"Aren't you going? Time is destruction, and all that?"

The ping pong ball landed in one of the cups, splashing out some of the beer. The Time Lords cheered again.

"Suppose," said the Master, but he didn't sound exactly pleased about it.

He was gone before Romana could blink. There was another cheer from the beer pong players. Romana sat back, and wondered.

* * *

Lynda Moss crossed her ankles and made herself comfortable on the roof of Torchwood Tower. The ray guns were long disabled (save for the one the Master had destroyed), but she didn't feel any rush to go home quite yet. Time was still stagnant, after all, and she didn't think the Master was done with her.

Sure enough, he popped into existence before she'd even finished examining the nails on one hand.

"Hello," said Lynda cheerfully. "Any luck so far?"

"That depends," he said.

"On?"

The Master frowned, looking around the rooftop. "There ought to be a message waiting for me here."

"Well, no one's given me one," said Lynda. "Why do you think there's a message waiting?"

"This is where it ought to have been sent." The Master looked up at the Sycorax ship, still stationary in the sky with figures running around on the edge. He wondered what was going on, thought about going to investigate, and then decided not to bother. "Don't suppose you could hack into the Torchwood computer system, could you?"

Lynda snorted. "What am I, ten? Of course. Why?"

The Master didn't answer; he just took Lynda by the arm and began walking toward the stairwell. "Two more squares," he told her. "Two more, and then I'm done. Gone. Adios. Sayonara. Dasvedanya. Huynshzy'auuycyh."

"Huh?"

"You don't know Huynshish? Very popular language in another – oh, three thousand centuries and a half dozen parsecs. Mind opening the door?"

Lynda opened the door to the stairwell, the Master pushed her through it, and it slammed shut behind them. They began walking, a bit awkwardly because of his hold on her arm, down the stairs and into Torchwood.

"I'm not entirely sure why I'm helping you," said Lynda.

"Yeah, well, I'm not entirely sure why I haven't killed you yet," said the Master evenly.

"You can't kill me," said Lynda. "I'm the center square."

The Master snorted. "Do you even know what that means?"

"Only that you can't kill me," said Lynda a bit smugly. The Master resisted the urge to shake her.

"I _could_," he said thoughtfully. "But at the moment, I need you to hack into Torchwood's systems for me."

"You haven't said _why_."

The Master stopped in front of another door. Lynda obediently opened it, and together they shuffled through, into a large room with a dozen computers – as well as a dozen employees sitting in front of them, or walking to get coffee, or looking out the window.

Lynda was about to shout for help – until she realized that none of the people were moving.

"Time's still frozen," she realized.

"Handy, isn't it?" said the Master. He kicked a chair (with attached man) over, and steered Lynda in front of the computer. "You're looking for a message to yourself in the archives. Try keywords Lynda, Torchwood, fantasy."

Lynda was about to slap him again, but the Master stepped back. "You could try Sycorax instead of fantasy, but I don't think the search will be nearly as conclusive at the moment, with a Sycorax ship sailing overhead, do you?"

"Fine," muttered Lynda, and began typing. "This is ridiculous. Why on earth would my name be in the Torchwood archives? And even if it were, it wouldn't be _me_, I've never had anything to do with—oh."

"Ooo," said the Master, leaning over her shoulder. "That's interesting."

"It was filed _six months from now_," said Lynda. "Wait – is that even possible?"

"Don't think about it too hard," the Master told her.

"No, what I mean is – should I say it _was_ filed six months from now, or it _will be_ filed six months from now? Clearly, it _was_ filed, but I'm talking future-tense here, so—"

"You're seriously telling me you're more concerned about the grammatical structure of that sentence and less about the timey-whimey nature of the situation?" the Master asked her.

Lynda didn't answer. She turned back to the computer and opened the file. A chart instantly popped up on the screen.

"That's a message?" asked Lynda.

"Yes," said the Master, and he pulled the familiar roll of paper out of his back pocket. He quickly began scribbling.

"Hey, look," said Lynda, perking up. "I'm in the center square, just like you said."

"Mm-hmm," said the Master, still scribbling.

"Is that us? Me and Sycorax and Torchwood and those blank bits?"

"Yes," said the Master impatiently.

"Like a bingo card," said Lynda brightly. "So where do the other squares fall in? When do I get to play with the giant robots and the first person and the – what's that corner square say?"

The Master made a choking sound, and stared in horror at the papers in his hand.

"Something you didn't expect?" asked Lynda.

"You've got to be kidding me," said the Master, choking.

"What?"

"I hate him," whispered the Master. "No. Hate isn't strong enough. _Despise_. That's good. I despise him."

"Despise who?" asked Lynda, curious.

The Master turned and stormed out of the room, his papers clenched in his fist. Lynda jumped up and took two steps toward him before turning back, pulling the chair (and attached employee) back to its original position in front of the computer.

"Sorry," she told the man, and then raced after the Master, already halfway up the stairwell.

"Despise who?" she shouted, climbing the stairs.

"If he thinks this is going to stop me, he's got another think coming!" the Master yelled back.

"Okay, fine, you can't be stopped! But I think I've got a right to know what's going _on_!"

The Master had reached the door to the rooftop, and he turned and glared at Lynda just below him. "I am a hard, cold, unfeeling bastard who doesn't care for any living soul save for myself, and frankly, the state or existence of my soul is up for debate. Got it?"

"Sure," said Lynda.

"I would trample my own _mother_, assuming I had one, in order to get what I want."

"Okay," said Lynda.

"The word 'mercy' is not and has never been in my vocabulary."

"Righty-ho," said Lynda.

The Master stormed out of the door. Lynda followed, to find him standing in on the rooftop again, by the destroyed ray gun, staring up at the Sycorax ship above. All of the fire seemed to have gone out of him now. His hand rested on the destroyed ray gun. Lynda might have thought he was apologetic about it. But that couldn't possibly be right. She crossed the rooftop and stood beside him.

"Didn't like the message, then?" she surmised.

The Master didn't respond, so Lynda snuck a glance at his face, and was surprised by what she saw. The Master looked – stricken. Pale. Sick, almost.

"I destroyed a ray gun for you," he said.

"You didn't quite know what you were thinking," Lynda soothed him.

"No, but—" The Master blinked. "I _like_ ray guns."

"It's okay," said Lynda. "I'm sure you'll do better next time."

"Who do you have waiting for you at home?" he asked.

Lynda pushed down the sudden laughter. "What is—?"

"You said someone was waiting. Who?"

"My boyfriend," said Lynda.

"Oh," said the Master absently. "That's nice."

He looked down at the golden rod in his hand – the one that had stopped time for her, destroyed a ray gun for her, been used to half-heartedly threaten her with any number of horrible outcomes – and he shuddered.

"Master," said Lynda carefully, "what's wrong? Why does that last square scare you? You can tell me."

"No," said the Master. "Not really."

He clicked something on the rod – and with a lurch in her stomach, Lynda realized he'd started time up again.

"Go home, Lynda Moss," said the Master simply. "See you in your dreams."

And he disappeared.

* * *

The Master, when he reappeared, looked decidedly unwell.

He looked at Romana, completely stricken, opened his mouth as if to say something snarky or biting or annoying or worse, and then closed it again without uttering a sound.

And then, much to Romana's surprise, he disappeared again, immediately, without saying a single thing.

None of the Time Lords playing beer pong noticed, which Romana thought was just as well.

* * *

_If you'd like to see what the Master's bingo card looks like, please direct your browser to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_twentyfour dot jpg_

_Think you know what that last square reads? Guess correctly, and win a drabble from me. _


	25. Chapter 25

**Title:** There Was a Master in a Game

**Author:** azriona

**Characters:** The Master mostly. This week's guest star is Lynda Moss.

**Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Spoilers:** Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.

**Betas:** Runriggers and Earlgreytea68

**A/N:** First and foremost, countless thanks go to LJ's the_tenzo for the _most awesome bingo card ever_. I wish I could take credit for the card, but it all goes to her.

Second, thanks to the usual suspects, my betas who laugh at my jokes and tell me when I misspell stuff. Any errors that remain are mine and mine alone.

As for you, reading this now: There is too much to say, and too many who need to hear it. But what it boils down to is this: because you read the second chapter, said "HUH?", but kept on reading anyway – thank you. I hope this ending is everything you want it to be.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Everywhere and in Between**

By the time the Master returned to the Council Room, the Beer Pong Tournament had concluded.

"Who won?" he asked Romana, the only Time Lord who wasn't sprawled out in some state of intoxication on a chair, table, or floor.

"I don't think they got that far," said Romana. She was sitting on top of the table, her ankles neatly crossed. "Are you going to leave the Time Lock now?"

The Master's glare was particularly sharp. "What makes you think that?"

"You filled in the missing squares, didn't you? You can break the Time Lock."

"Mmm." The Master watched as one of the Time Lords batted at his nose before falling back to sleep. "Don't know why I'd want to stay."

"I think he wanted you to break it," said Romana.

The Master snorted.

"All right, maybe not you, but – someone. Otherwise he would never have left a Key." Romana swung her legs. "It's what the Doctor does, you know. He always offers a choice." Romana straightened, and dropped her voice a few octaves to mimic the Doctor. "'Leave this world, or suffer the consequences'. You know."

"I've heard it," said the Master grimly.

"So you do know," said Romana with a nod. "He's given you a choice. Break the Key, leave the Time Lock. Or not."

The Master pulled the now tattered roll of papers from his back pocket.

"That's the question, isn't it?" said the Master, looking at the papers. "Who suffers the consequences?"

"Oh, what's it matter?" said Romana airily, waving her hand. "As long as you're out of the Time Lock, free to commit wanton acts of destruction?"

The Master's head snapped up. "It matters," he snapped. "And, having traveled with him as long as you did, I'd think _you_ would know that, Romanadvoratrelundar."

And he disappeared.

Romana smiled, and hopped off the table. She kicked the Time Lord closest.

"Time to wake up, sleeping beauty," she said cheerfully. "I'm feeling peckish, and you're going to bake me a coconut cake."

* * *

"I say," said Randolph Spencer-Churchill, looking down at his fiancée with surprise. "I should look for peanuts more often."

Sally didn't say anything; she simply buried her nose in his lapel, and tried not to think too hard. It was only a matter of time before the Master returned again, before she had to pretend she didn't know what was in the corner square. Not that she knew, but would he actually believe her…

"Sally," said Randy, and she could hear the concern in his voice. "Is there something the matter?"

"What would you do if I went away?" she asked his coat.

"I'd be quite sorry," said Randy. "I've grown immensely fond of you."

"Would you marry someone else?" she asked, looking up at him.

"I expect I might, in time," he said, his moustache waggling up and down. "But I very much doubt I would look for anyone immediately following the funeral. Perhaps not until the following week."

Sally lightly punched his arm.

"Year," amended Randy. "Decade, perhaps, if that would suit?"

"It would."

"That's decided, then," said Randolph, and most unlike him, leaned over to kiss her.

"Oh, please," said a voice from the corner of the room. "As if I weren't feeling ill enough already."

Sally pulled out of the kiss to stare at the Master, newly returned and looking incredibly sour.

"You look horrid," she told him.

"You don't," he said, very grumbly. "When's the wedding?"

"Two weeks," said Randolph. "And I was rather hoping the portrait would be finished in time for display at the reception, my good fellow—?"

"Yeah, we all want things," said the Master, waving his hand. He turned to Sally. "So you're going through with it?"

"Yes," said Sally, gripping onto Randolph's hand.

"Hmph." The Master sat on the windowsill and glared at them. "End of the world, you know."

"I'll chance it," snapped Sally.

He was quiet for a moment. "How'd you meet?"

Sally blinked. "What?"

"How. Did. You. Meet."

"I heard you, I just…" Sally sighed. "He nearly ran me over in his carriage."

"I _did_ run you over," Randolph corrected her. "You knocked your head against the cobblestones, we thought you would die before we ever learned your name." He was forlorn for a moment, as if the thought of Sally's possible death haunted him even now.

Sally turned and touched his cheek. "I woke up and saw you by the window, asleep in the chair. I thought I was dreaming."

"I'd been sitting there all night, waiting—"

"And you startled awake, and you were so nervous because I was in a nightgown, and there wasn't anyone else," said Sally, smiling. "As if anyone would really think you'd take advantage of me with a concussion!"

"Oh, gag," said the Master. "Do you two realize how annoyingly cute you two sound?"

"You asked," said Sally.

"I did," said the Master regretfully.

"Besides," said Sally. "I think it's romantic – like something you'd expect out of a storybook, or one of those black-and-white movies where they never get together until the end, because you're absolutely convinced they hate each other all the way through, until something happens and they realize—" Sally shrugged. "They're perfect for each other."

The Master winced. "You _would_ say that, wouldn't you?"

Sally crossed her arms. "Well, go on. What did you come back for? I don't think it was to ask us how we met."

"You gave it to me already," said the Master morosely.

Sally blinked. "I did?"

"Sally Sparrow," said the Master, standing. "Do you want to go home?"

"She _is_ home," said Randolph, resting his hand on her shoulder.

The Master kept staring at Sally, and she nodded her agreement.

"I thought you hated the underwear," said the Master.

Sally smiled. "I'll get over it."

"Ugh," said the Master, and disappeared.

Randolph Spencer-Churchill blinked. "Good lord, the man just disappeared."

"He did," said Sally. "I think for good this time."

"Well," said Randolph, and it took him a moment to find the words. "I suppose we'll have to find another artist."

Sally laughed.

* * *

"I think the Master's coming back," said Jack Harkness grimly. Lynda swallowed, worried.

"Then I won't leave you," she said firmly. "He didn't want me to see him before – that won't have changed. He won't dare hurt you if I'm here."

"Lynda—" Jack took her by the shoulders. "Don't you see? He's _dangerous_. He just about killed me before, he could very well do it again, with or without you here. I won't take that chance. You need to go home."

Lynda effortlessly knocked his hands away. "You've never been stupid, Jack. You've been a lot of things, but stupid? Not one of them."

Jack rubbed his eyes. "Lynda…"

"Don't 'Lynda' me! You've never mollycoddled me before, so why start now?"

"Mollycoddled? Really? That word still _exists_?" Jack looked amused.

"If what you told me before is true, you're from a later time period than I am, Jack Harkness," snapped Lynda. "I wouldn't be making fun of _me_ for a word you recognize!"

"_If_ what I told you?" Jack's voice was cool now. "What do you mean, _if_?"

"I _mean_, it may be true, but—"

"Did you or did you not see me die and come back just now? Right there, beneath your desk?"

"Just because you're apparently unable to die doesn't mean you're from the future," said Lynda.

"I'd lie about one thing and not about the other?"

"I don't know what you'd do! As it turns out, I don't know anything about you at all! You're not even _American_!"

"I never said I _was_!" shouted Jack.

"You never corrected me when _I_ said it!" Lynda shouted back. "For crying out loud, Jack, I thought you were from _Nebraska_."

"_Nebraska_? What about me made you think I was from _Hicksville_?"

"For starters, you didn't _know_ anything – not the monetary system, not the aerocars – you didn't even know how to work the computers. What was I _supposed_ to think but that you were from the back of nowhere? Oh, wait. I'm sorry, I should have just _guessed_ that you were from a different _time period_. Why didn't I think of that?"

Jack groaned. "Lynda—"

"_Don't_ 'Lynda' me," she warned him. "My mother 'Lyndas' me. _You_ do not 'Lynda' me."

"Fine," said Jack through gritted teeth. "Tell me how I'm supposed to say your name when you're being ridiculous."

"I'm not the one being ridiculous."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. I'm being _hurt_. There's a difference."

Jack blinked. "Hurt?"

"Yes, hurt!" yelled Lynda. "I _trusted_ you, Jack. Why didn't you trust me?"

"Maybe because you wouldn't believe me – and wow, look! You didn't!"

"Who says I don't believe you!"

"You did! Five minutes ago!"

"It has nothing to do with whether I believe you or not, Jack Harkness! It's that _you lied to me the whole bloody time_! If you'd just told me the _truth_ three years ago, I wouldn't be so angry with you now!"

Jack stared at her. "Wait. You believe me?"

"Didn't I just say—"

"Say it again."

"Yes, I believe you," snapped Lynda. "You're immortal, you're from a gazillion years in the future, you were the last person aboard the Game Station and the only one to survive. Is that all?"

"Not really," said Jack, took two steps to Lynda, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her.

To Lynda's surprise (as well as Jack's), she kissed him back.

When they finally came up for air, they remained locked in each other's arms, staring in shock at each other.

"Uh," said Lynda, swallowing.

"Hmm," said Jack, tasting his lips.

"Again, please," said Lynda, and to her relief, he complied.

Neither of them noticed the man in the hall. This was probably because he wasn't there anymore. Had they seen him before he disappeared, however, they would have noticed the shocked expression on his face. It was very much as if he had witnessed something that had made him queasy enough to cry.

* * *

Lynda Moss sat at her desk in Torchwood Tower's lobby, busily working on her notepad. She didn't look up when the lobby doors opened, and the footsteps approached her desk.

"Hello, welcome to Torchwood Tower," she said, somewhat dully. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Not really."

Lynda's head snapped up, and she broke into a wide smile, clearly pleased to see the visitor. "You're back!" she said, delighted.

The Master swallowed. "I'm back."

"I thought you were gone for good," she told him.

He frowned. "I was just here."

"Two weeks ago! You'll never guess – they accepted my application."

"To Big Brother?" She nodded. "That's – good. So you're going?"

"I think so," said Lynda. "No reason to stay here, anyway."

"Oh," said the Master. He tapped his fingers on the counter.

"Did – did you want me to look for your friend the Doctor again?" asked Lynda, a bit more timid now.

"Your head all right?"

Lynda smiled, a bit confused, and nodded. "I had a little headache, but it's been gone for ages."

"Good." He looked somewhat sour. "Oh, look. I'm not any good at this. I'm not usually the sort to care about whether someone has a headache or doesn't, or gets onto the telly or doesn't, or even tries to be helpful or doesn't, unless it benefits _me_. And frankly, whether or not you have a headache or win the competition or even find that blasted bloody Doctor, not one bloody thing is going to make any of this any better, which is that the one thing I apparently _do_ care about is that I don't like the idea of completely destroying any world in which you exist. _Okay_?"

Lynda blinked. "Okay."

"So I'm _not_. I'm just _not_." He looked up at the ceiling and shouted. "_Did you hear that, Doctor? You win! I'm here. I'm not going anywhere_."

The words echoed off the chamber and almost visibly bounced against the metal and glass walls before they faded away.

"In that case," said Lynda. "Do you want to share my chicken salad sandwich? I think it was an evil chicken."

"Sure," said the Master, and just to prove he was evil, scuffed his feet on the floor.

"_Rose_!" he bellowed, and there was a clang from under the TARDIS console, which looked rather like a kitchen countertop, probably because it was. The Meta-crisis half-human Doctor peered underneath to see Rose clutching a monkey wrench and rubbing the top of her head. "Oh, there you are. Are all our hatches battened down?"

"Yes," said Rose irritably. "Did you have to _shout_ while you were standing right next to me?"

"I didn't know you were next to me!" The Doctor straightened again and started to shout for Sally.

"Psychic abilities, my _foot_," said Rose under the console.

"I heard that."

"I _said_ it, not _thought_ it."

"_Sally_!"

"Here!" sang Sally from above, where she was carefully placing the last of the anti-heat radiator shielding. "Where to first, boss?"

"Don't call me boss," said the Doctor. "I think Barcelona."

"Heard that before," said Rose under the console.

"Are you coming out?" the Doctor asked her.

"I like it under here," said Rose. "You know what would be nice under here? Apple grass."

"New Earth?"

"New beginnings," Rose corrected him, crawling out from under the console. "New worlds to explore. New stories to be spun. New – well, everything. Don't you think?"

He grinned at her as Sally dropped down from above. "New dreams too?"

"Of course!" said Sally.

The Doctor reached for the console. "Well, then – _allons-y_!"

_finis_

_

* * *

_

_If you'd like to see what the completed bingo card looks like, please direct your browser to:_

_www dot azriona dot net/master/chapter_twentyfive dot jpg_


End file.
